


Lifted Up

by imperfectkreis



Series: Tate [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Anal Sex, Desperation, Established Relationship, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, Married Couple, Oral Sex, Past Infidelity, Prosthesis, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6276346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2287: Butch "Courier Six" DeLoria and Tate "Lone Wanderer" Zhang are really fucking sick and tired of being asked to help in either the salvation or annihilation of the world. They're approaching thirty and they're tired and they really don't need this bullshit anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sometimes your plans have better contours, sometimes even that doesn't matter

Butch’s fingers wetten against the skin of Tate’s chest, slick and cool, despite the September heat that still holds like a cloud in the empty spaces around them. Tate’s panting below him, thighs spread around Butch’s hips, rolling like currents against a cliff. Wearing them both down, year by year. 

“Fuck, Butch.” Tate’s dark hair falls in front of his eyes, sticking to his forehead. He loops his right arm around Butch’s shoulders, trying to draw him in, keep their bodies close. 

The room is dark with the shutters closed, trying to keep out the sun and battle the heat back. But light comes in from the open bedroom door, splashing shadows across the bed. Still, Tate’s eyes look black, bottomless. 

Slipping from Tate’s chest, Butch plants his hands on the mattress, on either side of Tate’s neck. Tate turns his head to kiss the inside of Butch’s bare right wrist, before sharply turning back to catch their eyes together. His legs tangle around Butch’s back, give him more leverage to force Butch inside. 

Tate is tight around him, impossibly hot and yielding. But there’s viciousness to him always. When Butch cants forward to kiss him, Tate bites sharply at his bottom lip. He taunts, “Harder.”

“You’re trying to kill me, I swear.” Grabbing at Tate’s shoulders, Butch pulls them both up, careful not to slip out of Tate, as he sits back on his heels. Chest to chest, Tate’s clammy skin starts to catch fire. Tate’s wedding band, hung around his neck, cuts into Butch’s sternum. 

Tate shifts his legs, keeping his arm locked around Butch to preserve his balance, while trying to find stability on the mattress. He bites at Butch’s jaw before slamming his hips back down, breathing out, “Fuck.” 

Butch smirks, “I’m trying.”

Oh, but Tate lifts himself again, coming back down hard, his hair bouncing on the impact, dark eyes open. He’s beautiful like this, beautiful always, really. But Butch still has trouble saying it, sometimes, because Tate doesn’t like hearing it. Otherwise, fuck, he’d never stop shouting it. Even if Nosebleed is too fucking vain and spends long minutes trying to appraise the corners of his eyes where he’s sure he’s starting to wrinkle. But it’s half in his head. Butch thinks Tate could still pass for younger, maybe. Makes Butch fucking jealous as hell, too. 

Butch works his arm between their bodies, holding onto Tate’s cock and dragging his hand. The other arm he keeps around Tate’s waist, trying to help him keep steady as he fucks himself on Butch’s cock. Butch tries to think of other things. Not the way Tate feels like the perfect fit. Not the way his dark, hard nipples graze against Butch’s chest. Not his short, straight eyelashes or the pitch of his whining breaths. Just anything that will let him hold off a little longer. 

“You’re close,” Tate teases, “I can feel it. You’re so fucking hard.”

“Nah,” Butch lies, “could keep this up for hours.” He speeds the pace of his hand. Precum dribbles out between his fingers. Tate is hard too. Butch can feel his balls tense. This isn’t going to take hours. 

“Fuck, to have your cock in me for that long, love? Til I’m a fucking mess for you?”

“You’re always a fucking mess, Nosebleed.”

Tate laughs, resting his forehead against Butch’s. When he’s in Butch’s lap like this, their heights are even. Their lips meet, but this time it’s slow, drawn, even if Butch’s hand is still sharp around Tate’s cock, even as their skin slaps too loud in the quiet of their house. 

Tate’s hand starts to tremble against Butch’s shoulder, spreading out to his arm, to his shoulders. His thrusts are more erratic. He’s close, so close. His eyes open and lips parted. As he starts spilling over Butch’s hand, wet and viscous, Butch has to start thrusting back into him. Tate’s legs have gone soft now, boneless. Butch lets go of Tate’s cock, wrapping around his torso instead to keep from falling. Fuck, the hurried clamping of his body around Butch’s cock is too much. Too much. Butch keeps spiking with his hips until he contracts too, digging his fingers into Tate’s back until he gasps, then groans with satisfaction. 

They end up tumbled over, Butch on top of Tate, their chests sticking together with Tate’s cum and both of their sweat. Hopefully, it starts cooling off too. The shutters rattle with the wind. All Butch can hear is their stutter, the waves against the rocks outside, and Tate breathing. Reminds him to breathe too.

Pulling out of Tate, Butch stretches his shoulders. They shouldn’t be so sore. Age is getting to him, in more ways than just the one. He drops himself onto the bed next to Tate. It’s too fucking warm to make much contact. But Tate rolls onto his side to face Butch. He rolls his fingertips down the center of Tate’s chest, circling around the gold band. 

“What time is it?” Tate asks.

Butch taps at his Pipboy to turn the screen on. “Just past two.”

“Mm,” Tate lets his eyes flutter closed. “I guess we have time then.”

Draping his arm over Tate’s waist, Butch needs to touch him somewhere. The gulf of air between them has to be enough to chase the heat away. Because Butch can’t really be expected to keep his hands off of Tate. 

“What? You have something to do?” Their days now are mostly filled with long stretches of doing nothing. Tate likes running along the beach, even if he has to dose rad-x before he goes. Butch programs shitty terminal games that are too hard for Tate to play. But when he makes them any easier, Tate snaps to stop coddling him. So he always sets the difficulty back before Tate takes them into Monterey to negotiate for NCR dollars. He comes back with food and more blank holos. Sand sticking to his calves and boots. 

Tate sits up in bed, stretching his right arm over his head too. Makes the definition of muscle along his torso more distinct. Tate worries about a lot of things, including getting soft. But he hasn’t been soft since he was fourteen. Fucking asshole. He drapes his arm over his head, letting it sit there in his hair. “I want you to look at my arm. It’s not working right.”

“Nosebleed, I told you,” Butch swings his legs off the side of the bed, ready to head for the kitchen for water. “You need an actual engineer to look at it, a Followers mechanic or something. I’m not really an expert here.”

Tate’s pouting, Butch doesn’t even have to look at him to know. 

“Did you ask Doc Chen?” Butch asks.

Blowing air out, Tate responds, “Yeah, she said none of the Followers in Monterey are gonna know. Referred me to someone in San Francisco.”

Butch leans against the doorframe. ‘San Francisco’ hangs like a ugly painting in the center of the room. Butch doesn’t push the subject of Tate going. Tate should have asked for someone else. Maybe someone in Navarro or Shady Sands, even though the trip would take more than a week, rather than a few days there and back. At least then, Tate might actually go. 

“Okay, show me what’s wrong then. I guess I’ll look.”

Padding off to the kitchen, Butch knows he ain’t gonna be able to do much for Tate’s arm. Unless it’s something simple, like a sticking joint or something. But if it were simple, Tate might have fixed it himself already. 

Butch reaches into the fridge, pulling two bottles of purified water. He starts on his own on his way back to the bedroom, tucking the other under his arm. 

By the time he gets back, Tate has fitted his left arm back into the socket on his shoulder. The doctors at the Boneyard did a hell of a job making the thing, getting it to work. Tate’d cried the first night when the spiny, metal fingers actually started moving. But that was like, six years ago now. It was only a matter of time before it started showing wear and tear. 

“Here,” Butch passes Tate the other bottle of water, letting him drink before holding out his hands for Tate to give him his. Sitting next to each other on the bed, Butch holds Tate’s hand in his lap, brushing his fingers over the metal. “Show me what’s wrong.”

Tate turns his left hand over, so it’s palm up in Butch’s lap. It never gets warm. Well, sometimes when Tate is out in the sun too long, his skin turning warm and brown, his exposed metal hand gets hot to the touch. But right now it’s cold through the thin fabric of Butch’s boxers. He keeps the hand cupped in both of his as Tate makes a fist, curling his thumb inside the other fingers. Only the fist never tightens all the way, doesn’t quite lock into place like it should. Butch has seen Tate punch plenty of shit with his metal fist, the fingers normally lock tightly together. 

“But more than that,” Tate explains, “it’s how it feels? Like, it feels even looser than it looks.” He opens his fist up again, almost to full extension, and Butch can see it again. It’s not a mechanical failure. Nothing is loose or torn. But the digits aren’t listening to Tate’s brain like they should. Kind of a wonder they listened in the first place, since Tate has enough trouble, sometimes, getting his flesh to respond the right way. 

“Yeah,” Butch bites at his bottom lip, over where Tate bit earlier. “I dunno what to do, um.” He curls his own fist over top of Tate’s trying to make the fist tighter. “Can you feel that?”

He knows Tate can’t actually ‘feel’ anything in the prosthesis. There aren’t like, sensors or anything for that shit. But there’s feedback, sort of. A ghosting feeling, Tate’d explained once. Like there should be more to the pressure and pokes, but it also seems sort of empty. 

“Nah, but I still like it.”

Butch opens up Tate’s hand, finger by finger. Now it’s starting to get warm, as the two of them transfer heat. “And that?”

Tate shakes his head. The looseness is there. Something is wrong with the hand. It needs maintenance, or something. Fuck, Butch doesn’t know what it needs, only that he wants to make Tate feel better. 

“I’ll go with you, this week. Into town.” Without thinking, he keeps on playing with Tate’s metal fingers, pushing them back, pulling them forward, running the pads of his fingertips against each joint. Tate doesn’t seem to mind, letting Butch do what he wants. “We can talk to Doc Chen.” Butch laces his fingers in between each of Tate’s. They scrape a bit, there’s no give there. “Maybe she knows someone else, not in San Francisco.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Tate responds, “Yeah. Maybe the trip will be good.”

“Mmm,” Butch puts his other hand on Tate’s thigh, slipping his index finger into the leg of Tate’s boxers. “Been awhile since we’ve been to Shady Sands.”

“Almost a year now.”

Butch nods, “Yeah, we could go back to that bar? The one downtown that shows shitty pre-War sex vids on the monitors?”

Tate laughs, “I hate that place.”

“I know,” Butch smiles.

They eat a dinner of instamash and salisbury steak, warmed up just enough on the little gas stove in the kitchen so that it chews decently. At least now they don’t burn everything they touch. It’s Butch’s turn to stand over the stove and make jokes about “slaving over a hot meal.” But it's not like, a chore or anything because Tate stands behind him the whole time, his arms around Butch’s waist and his head resting between his shoulders.

The house is small, but not uncomfortably so. Before the war it was big, maybe? But half of it collapsed in, just rubble when Butch and Tate found it years ago. Took weeks to clear it out, brick, concrete, wood, ash. Wasn't worth rebuilding. So they’d put up a new metal wall, not as pretty as the old one, maybe, but sturdy and intact. Tate’d figured out how to make hinged shutters, so they could let light in. The foundation of the old house is still there though. Maybe like, a promise for years to come, if they ever find the desire to make it bigger.

They'd only picked this house because it looked out onto the ocean. With the green-beamed and yellow-bricked porch set out over the rocks. Tate has been trying to get vines to grow, and keep the hearty little bushes from dying. He’s not really good at it, but he comes back to the house with new plants at regular intervals, grown inside boxes up at Arroyo and shipped down to die along the sea. Butch isn’t gonna stop him though, or really bring it up, because Tate probably thinks there’s something poetic about it. The metaphor should be obvious, but that doesn’t mean Butch has to like it. 

After dinner they sit on the couch, Tate’s head and shoulders in Butch’s lap. Tate holds his Pipboy in both hands, using his right to turn the dials. Years back, Butch managed to rig it to power up without being attached to Tate’s arm. He’d found it too hard to work with the prosthesis when it was new. The Pipboy needs a bulky battery though, shoved into the space where Tate’s arm is supposed to fit. 

Butch plays with Tate’s dark hair while he reads, holding the book in his other hand. He spends enough time in front of terminals as it is, so when he reads it’s from one of Tate’s disintegrating paperbacks. They’re all so sad though, even the ones Tate claims end well. All cold Russian winters and militaristic Austrians. He can’t figure why Tate likes this sort of stuff. 

They don’t mean to fall asleep on the couch, but the sound of the ocean is louder here. Tate wakes them both up around two in the morning, the hiss of his arm detaching rousing Butch. Rolling the prosthesis onto the floor, Tate turns in the circle of Butch’s arms. They’ve stretched out as far as they can. Butch has to curl his legs a little to fit. Tate’s are almost straight, if they weren’t folded in between Butch’s.

\--

It’s only a handful of miles up Route 1 to Monterey. The settlement is practically on their doorstep, all things considered. A concession, really, that there is no empty place left on the continent, even though there used to be millions more people. Butch doesn’t know where they all could have fit. Everywhere around them feels all choked up with bodies as it is. And the places people don’t live? Radiation craters, deathclaw hives, vast, empty stretches with no water for days, land that won’t grow nothing.

At least no one knows them. Well, they know “Butch,” and “Tate,” and that they both sign their family name “DeLoria,” even though as the years pass, Butch likes his surname less and less. Tate has always hated his, so that’s not an option. And the NCR likes two names on every scrap of paper, at least two. They used to tease Cass about her long-winded name, before they met the NCR bureaucracy. Now they figure it makes things easier, a name like that, which won’t get all muddled up with someone else. 

From the number of mistakes made, Butch figures there are at least a half dozen other families with the name “DeLoria” on the books. And one of them is definitely a DeLoria, B., though he doubts the B is for Butch. He also thinks the other DeLoria, B. is probably a woman. Once he got a letter sent to their box in town about a tax credit for the birth of her second child. Tate snickered, saying they’d both be terrible fathers, but they should take the credit anyway. They named their tax-credit baby “Lily” and Butch tried not to think about his daughter. 

Butch doesn't always go into the settlement with Tate, just because they can't spend all day, every day, of every week, of every year glued to each other's hips. Well, heh, they could but they'd get fucking tired. Tired of fucking. Maybe. And sore. And Tate needs to burn off the excess energy more than Butch does and Tate’ll always get more money than Butch could manage, so he’s the one who normally goes into town. But Butch would be lying if he says that he doesn't like walking along the stretch of shops with his fingers curled into Tate’s and excess sand getting into his shoes.

Tate lets go of Butch’s hand to talk to the amusements dealer who sells packs of cards, board games with missing pieces replaced by crude imitations, and buys Butch’s hologames. From there they go on to someplace else where they’re copied. Probably Shady Sands, but Butch has never asked. Tate's toes tap in his boots while he talks to the dealer. Voss? Vess? Something like that. She lets her hair grow too long and wears it in looped braids that sway against her back. Tate’s not selling anything today because Butch is still working on this game, which is a lot like his last one, just shooting little bulbs of light at bigger bulbs of light, but this time the targets explode like fireworks instead of breaking apart like eggshells. Tate promises that's enough of a change that Vass will buy the holo when it’s ready.

“Did you want to get a drink?” Tate slips back in beside Butch, sticking his sweaty hands into Butch’s front pockets to hold their bodies together. It's too fucking hot for this, but Butch doesn't push him away.

Butch loops his fingers around Tate’s wrists, “We’re supposed to talk to Doc Chen.” He slides this closed fingers up Tate’s arms, watching as the space between his thumbs and index fingers spread. He's careful not to scratch his hands on the left arm.

“Don't need to be sober for that. Might be better with one or two in me.”

Can't argue with that. Butch throws his arm over Tate’s shoulders as they head off towards the Lion. It’ll be crowded but sometimes that's okay. Weird, still, learning to live around other people, even after years. He still worries people might get the wrong idea. Get the idea that he and Tate could be of some help. That they’re kind souls with good shots. But Tate is still shit with his pistol and Butch ain't got a nice rifle anymore. Just the little laser gun in his pack that he never flashes around because people always fucking ask about energy weapons.

Most of the patrons at the long, rectangular bar are related some way or another to the Followers, black crosses on white fields stitched into their clothing. Marks them as important, or something. Mostly it means they have dollars to spare and enough leisure time to drink.

The surface of the bar is studded with seashells, trapped in enamel, just the barest tips of the biggest shells poking out above the surface. And most of those are worn down by generations of hands. Butch presses his palms flat against the sharpest one, liking the prick of it against his skin. The bar is open to the beach, just a thatched roof over top to keep out the rain when it happens. But most everyone runs inside when the weather gets bad anyway.

Tate orders for them both. Just beer. Tate hates the taste of beer. But he likes how it makes him feel. Butch doesn't mind the burn of liquor, but he still worries he might learn to like it too much. So he doesn't chance it. Already been through the hell of detox once. Watching Tate on the operating table at the Boneyard was all the convincing Butch needed to not get beat down by Jet.

While they drink, Tate sits too close, and his elbow keeps sticking into Butch’s side. He tears at the label on the bottle until it’s confetti on the bartop. Weird to think that the breweries print new labels now, that they stick to old, pre-War bottles scaved from the Wastes. There are a lot of things in California they didn’t think possible.

Butch leaves his label intact, but starts rearranging Tate’s scraps. Together they build flowers and rifles, matching up which shred of paper makes the best shape for the barrel, the petals, the trigger. 

Butch orders a second beer for them both, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for the caps, even though Tate usually pays for everything. Only when he opens his wallet does he remember they don’t use caps anymore. He’s used to thinking in caps, still. But he has the paper bills ready. Tate’s fingers drum against the top of Butch’s thigh, and in a low voice he says, “Me too,” like he can fucking read Butch’s mind. He lifts his ass up off the barstool to stick his wallet back into his pants. The next thing Tate says, for no reason at all, is, “I love you.” Butch smiles.

They hear it before they see it.

The whirling blades of the Vertibird cut through the chatter of the bar. Really, Butch hadn’t much noticed how loud the people around them were, too intensely focused on Tate’s fidgeting and himself. But now, with the too-close chopper, Butch hears the Followers, hears them grow silent too. The Vertibird is too low to the ground, too close to the settlement, too much of everything. Butch grabs his pack up off the floor. Tate is already out of his barstool, his hands in fists. 

While the other patrons look concerned, none of them reach for their weapons, though they’re sure to be armed with something. Maybe they just think it’s an inexperienced pilot, bringing some government official to check in on them. They just don’t know the typical landing zones. Well, there isn’t really a normal place to land, far as Butch knows. 

If they’re scared, maybe they worry about a malfunction. So they should run, but not fight. But him and Tate? They’re used to fighting. So Butch slips his hand into his pack, wrapping his fingers around the handle of his laser pistol, but not pulling it out quite yet.

There’s a second Vertibird. Butch can hear it now.

Tate starts running.

Butch doesn’t hesitate, sprinting after him, trying to catch up. But Tate is faster, always has been. Quicker reflexes and sharper movements. Pushing through the bodies in his way frozen, watching the Birds approach, Tate rushes towards the beach. Towards where they’re most likely to land. Butch looks up, just for a second, to confirm what he’s positive Tate already knows.

Brotherhood.

But it’s impossible. Impossible. They wouldn’t come this far West, not anymore. Not so deep into the NCR. Not into a settlement like this, with so little to offer in terms of technology and resources. The generators at Monterey are small, there’s no particular concentration of pre-War artifacts. There’s nothing here for them.

And it will start a war.

Butch’s boots pound against the pavement until it turns to sand. He keeps running even though Tate has stopped, silent in front of where the Brotherhood have set down. Four soldiers come out of the first Bird, clad in power armor, wielding rifles. 

Catching up, Butch grabs Tate around the waist, tries to pull him off the beach. But Tate thrashes in the circle of his arms. “They’ll kill everyone,” Tate kicks free. “Me, they have to be here for me.”

Ice runs through Butch’s veins. Tate might not be wrong. “Don’t let them have you.”

There’s fear in Tate’s eyes. The kind Butch hasn’t seen for years. Not since the Fort. They were so confident then, but still scared shitless. Terrified of a world that always asks too much of them. Tate’s mouth falls open, “Let me do the talking.”

“Don’t let them have you, not now,” Butch hisses.

Blood runs from Tate’s nostril. But the air here is wet. Butch tries to brush it away with his fingers. 

There are another five Knights in the second Bird. And a woman in a long coat, just skimming the ground. It was meant for someone taller. On her, it drags, picking up sand. “Do not be alarmed,” she says into the loudspeaker receiver, broadcasting over the beach. Speakers are mounted on the side of the Vertibird. “We have come to seek the aid of scientists and researchers.”

But there is no option, to stay or go. The settlement has few defenses. Enough to hold off raiders on foot, not suits of power armor dropping from the sky. And nothing, nothing about the Brotherhood is voluntary. Butch is not surprised when he hears the first shot, the first scream. 

“If we run, they’ll kill us.”

Butch nods, “I know.”

The Follower’s member they grab screams. She has short, pixie cut hair and a white labcoat. Her girlfriend starts running. They shoot her dead. Maybe those further inland are already running, trying to make it out of the settlement, out into the safety of the undifferentiated Wastes. But then Butch hears gunfire from the South too. There are more choppers. The Brotherhood are trying to round everyone up in the center of town. 

“You will be well compensated for your contributions,” the woman continues. The breeze blows her cap off before she can grab it. She lets it float away. 

Butch holds Tate in place, his back to the Brotherhood, as long as he can. But Tate won’t stand for being coddled, even if he’s shaking. Even if they both feel like they’re teenagers again, terrified by the prospect of being pinned to these men and women who would make them tools for their own ends. When the boots of the soldier grow close, displacing the sand, Tate turns sharply to meet them.

“Civilian,” the helmet tilts slightly looking them both up and down. “You are not Followers.” The soldier raises their rifle, but before they can fire, Tate interjects.

“You’ll want him!” His voice is confident, cocky, even. “Nah, we’re not Followers. But you’ll want my husband.” Tate grabs Butch’s wrist pulling him forward.

“We’re here for scientists,” the armor raises their weapon again. Another second and Butch will pull his pistol. But it’s not enough to pierce through all that steel. But another two seconds and they’ll be dead. The Brotherhood isn’t leaving witnesses behind. He hears another shriek, then silence.

“He is a scientist,” Tate explains. What the fuck is he trying to pull? “He’s a computer scientist.”

The armor hesitates.

“You ever play Space Fade? Or Trigger Ball?”

“The terminal games?”

“Yeah,” Tate’s shoulders relax a little. “But that don’t mean he can’t program other shit, right, love?” Tilting his eyes back towards Butch, he’s pleading for him to play along.

“It’s all the same basic principle,” Butch offers. Without thinking, he wraps his hand around Tate’s hip, keeping them bound together. What the fuck is Tate gonna say to get his ass from getting killed too? Fuck. He ain’t got nothing to offer. When they thought the Brotherhood had come for him, sure, Tate held all the cards. But this suit doesn’t have a lick of an idea who they are. 

The suit gestures over to the woman in the long coat. Latching the receiver back inside the Bird, she stalks over to them. Her brown hair has started to gray. She has it tied back tightly in a short ponytail, exposing the long expanse of her neck. She’s maybe two inches shorter than Tate, but holds herself as if she’s ten feet tall. 

“What?” She almost barks.

“Sentinel Gibson, This one,” the suit gestures to Butch. “They say he makes games. Could program other things too. But he’s not a Follower.”

Gibson looks Butch up and down first, her eyes lingering on the Pipboy on his wrist. Then her attention turns to Tate. She must see the metal hand, even though Tate’s long sleeves hides most of it. 

“How did you get that Pipboy?” she asks.

Tate answers before Butch can, “The normal way.” 

Her eyes narrow, “And your hand.”

Tate swallows thickly, “Doctors down South. Goes all the way up to my shoulder.”

Attention snapping back to Butch, she asks, “Prove it.”

“Prove what?” Butch wishes he could take the tremor out of his voice. But the suit has their weapon raised again. This time, it’s trained firmly on Tate. 

“That you’re a programmer we can use. We don’t have extra space on the Birds for liars or dilettantes.”

“My Pipboy, Butch, show her on mine.”

“I need to go into his pack,” Butch explains before moving. Gibson nods back curtly. 

Tate turns so Butch can unzip his bag. The Pipboy is under some extra socks and a shortsleeve tee. Tate’d packed that in case the heat won out over his desire to keep covered. He pulls the unit out and flips it on.

“See,” Tate starts explaining, “he even rigged it so that it’ll work on batteries, instead of people.”

“Told you Tate, it doesn’t run ‘on people,’” he tries to navigate to the beta of his latest game, though he doesn’t think it’ll be very convincing. “It just uses a combination of kinetic energy and white blood cells to-”

“Stop,” Gibson interjects. “Take him. And the extra Pipboy. And the other one’s arm. But we don’t have room for the rest of him. Besides, he talks too much.” She turns on her heels, marching back towards the Bird.

No. No no no no.

“Go,” Tate says. He sticks his right hand into the collar of his shirt, unlatching his arm from the socket. “Do what they tell you, Butch.”

“Fuck that!” 

Tate’s arm drops into the sand. He leaves it there for the suit to pick up. 

“They’re gonna fucking kill you, Nosebleed.” Butch’s heart is pounding so fast he feels it in his teeth. It’s infecting him through to the marrow. But Tate just stares blankly ahead, his voice even. Dead already. “Tell them who you are, Tate!”

“Go.” Tate closes his eyes. 

The suit shoots Tate once in the chest. His body collapsing in a loose heap on the ground. He needs a stim. And he needs it now. But Butch ain’t stupid. One shot from laser like that? Ain’t gonna kill Tate outright. But he lies so fucking still. Butch has gotta keep the fuck from shooting him again. 

His pockets. Tate’s got stims in his pockets, or his pack. Just, somewhere. He’s sure Tate’s got them. Butch has got to get this soldier out of here so Tate can try and badly doctor himself. So Butch stops fighting. He bends over, grabbing Tate’s arm himself. He moves faster than the suit can. 

“Where do I go?” Butch’s mouth is dry, full of cotton and anguish. Because every second they stay here is a second Tate doesn’t have. 

“I’ll escort you to the Bird.” They rip Tate’s arm and pipboy from Butch’s hands. 

He doesn’t dare look back.


	2. Who Exactly is Supposed to be the Hero Here, Because We're All a Bit Shit At It

Butch is assigned a little 5x5 cubicle. They ask him what he needs. He wants to say, “Tate.” Instead, he asks what he’s expected to make.

The first day, he sits at his empty desk, spread out against one wall of the cube. He runs his fingers along the prickly fibers of the wall, the smooth surface of the table. He looks for his reflection in the empty cup left behind by the last tenant. No one tells him what his job is. Down the hall he can hear someone scream. Someone fight. For a moment, he thinks he should too. Flip over the table, break off the metal leg, use it to beat the first person to try and take him down. Then the next. And the next.

But he doesn’t even know where he is. Only that they flew for hours, sacks over their heads. Before he was hooded, there were four Followers and him in the cab of the Bird. When the Knight took off the blindfold, there were three Followers. He must have missed her screams as she fell back to earth, lost in the sound of the blades.

Tate told him to go with them. And Butch knows Tate ain’t dead. No fucking way. So he drums his fingers against the chipboard table, and waits for instructions that don’t come. At six pm, a bright smiled Scribe with dark hair falling in front of his eyes comes to tell him it’s time for dinner. His bony hands are shoved into the pockets of his robes. 

“I’m Scribe Yalda,” he introduces himself. They walk together down the narrow hallway, they can barely fit side by side. Butch isn’t sure what this building was used for before the War, only that it’s filled with offices, in addition to the banks of cubicles in the otherwise open bullpen. So it was office work of some sort, duh. The building doesn’t seem heavily fortified, but that doesn’t mean they’re not well protected. Yalda’s hands fly as he speaks, “I’m sorry that you were not properly briefed! Only, we were not sure how many would properly acclimate to the environment,” he scrunches his nose. “In any case, I’ll be your sponsor.” He doesn’t appear to be more than twenty-five, but Butch remembers a lot of Brotherhood members being close to his and Tate’s age, back in the Capital. Fuck, that was so long ago. 

Absentmindedly, Butch touches his sideburns, where he knows he’s starting to go gray. “My sponsor?”

“Oh! Yes,” Yalda chatters. “We want this transition to be as smooth as possible for everyone involved. Normally the Brotherhood would not try to introduce so many new recruits at once. Watch your step,” Yalda keys through a door, pushing it open so Butch can exit first. So they’re locked inside, good information to have.

The sun is setting fast as Yalda and Butch cross the pavement. Butch can see now that the building with his cube is just one of a clutch of small structures. Each building has turrets outside the doors, facing out, which is some small relief. They are for keeping intruders at bay, not prisoners inside. Across from the low office buildings is another, heavier structure. Not pre-War, but assembled sometime after out of dented metal plates and wooden beams. Yalda leads them towards the metal fortress. 

“The mess is just inside,” he keys them both through the door. “Our quarters too. I hope you understand, it will take some time to make keys for you. Though, in fact,” he claps his hands together. When his robes slip, down to his forearms, Butch can see the nest of cords, ribbons, bracelets, and scrap around his wrists. Like a bird trying to impress a mate. “Once they are ready, maybe we can try and program your Pipboy to work as your key?”

Butch grunts noncommittally, “Sure.”

Dinner consists of salted fish and some fresh plant Butch has never seen. He waits for Yalda to start eating first, before trying something off his plate. The vegetable is bitter on his tongue, but seems to melt away. His geiger counter blips, but it’s barely anything at all. Yet, with the next bite, it’s more, the radiation warning crackling. 

“The botanists are still working on working the rads out. We hope the new recruits can be of some help,” Yalda says cheerfully. He insists on calling them recruits, as if they are here by choice. 

The fish is over-salted. Butch can’t stomach it. 

“I don’t like it much either,” Yalda points to the lump of fish on Butch’s plate. 

When they are finished, Butch knows well enough he is meant to follow Yalda out. He says close at his heels. At least he has not been forced into conversation with anyone else, though the mess was crowded, packed thick with bodies.

Yalda shows him the bathrooms, asking if he is in need? Butch grunts that he can wait. Further down the hall are the dormitories. “You’ll be sharing with me,” Yalda bites at his bottom lip. “They brought in a second cot for you. I hope it is not too cramped. We have the facilities for you to have your own room eventually,” he waves his hand, “provisioning and all. They’re just not ready yet.”

Butch thinks that’s a lie. And that Yalda is a very poor liar. All of these hoops through which Butch must jump, the keycards, the meals, the extra cot. It is so that he is never alone, no opportunity to run. He sticks his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He’ll run, alright, but not before he’s ready. Failure isn’t an option.

The Scribe opens the door to the room. There’s a cot against the rear wall, and another along the side, positioned so that their heads will be close together as they sleep. Footlockers sit at the end of each cot, but the room is free from personal touches. Either Yalda has not been here for long, or he owns very little. Back at the Citadel, Butch remembers there being lots of little things, posters and books and other distractions kept by the Steelers. But this room is bare. 

“I’m sorry that you had so little when you were recruited. But there are clothes for you in the locker. And if you need anything, just ask.” Yalda stays in the doorway, his hands curled around the frame, watching Butch pace the room.

Butch kicks open the footlocker. Inside are sets of Scribe robes, a couple pairs of slacks and tees to wear underneath. Nothing from his pack is in there, though the pack itself is. “Cigarettes?” he asks.

“Oh! Hmm,” Yalda looks down, “Smoking isn’t forbidden, but I’m not sure who to ask? I think most pick up cigarettes off base.”

Turning to look, Butch doesn’t think his expression is particularly threatening. But Yalda must, the way he raises his hands defensively. 

“I’ll ask around though!” Yalda is quick to offer. “Um,” he takes a step into the room. “As a Scribe, you are provisioned mentats, from the doctors, should you need them. If they’ll help with your work.”

Butch tilts his head to one side. Yalda is just about his height, though significantly thinner. At least, from his bony wrists, he looks thinner. Hard to tell under the layers of robes. He tries to get a look at Yalda’s warm brown eyes, for signs of chem use. But it’s too hard to tell, with nothing to compare against. 

From the footlocker, Butch grabs boxers and a tee. Yalda says there are towels next to the shower, he can bring them back to the room too. There are no chairs in the dorm, so Yalda climbs onto the bed, sitting with his legs crossed. 

When Butch excuses himself for the bathroom, he is relieved Yalda doesn’t have to escort him. The Scribe merely chirps that he’ll be here, waiting, since Butch doesn’t have his keys yet. 

Butch finally gets out of the room. He breathes heavily. Fuck, fuck. He’ll never be alone again. But if he plays good, does what he’s told, maybe then he’ll find an opportunity. He can get the fuck out of here and fucking find Tate. Fuck, for all he knows Tate’s outside the chain link fence right now, looking for his way in. He’s running clear across California trying to find Butch. He’s bringing an army. Or just his fists. Doesn’t matter. 

The water is hot, and rad free. His geiger counter stays quiet as he washes. There’s liquid soap mounted to the wall. Smells like citrus. Weird. Butch works some of it into his hair. Fuck, grains of sand come out onto his damp fingers. And he fucking thinks he’s gonna lose it. Of all the fucking things. Butch slams his closed fist into the wall. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. He doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on. And Tate, fuck, Tate. He has to bury his sob again. This time he swallows it down. 

When Butch returns to the dorm, Yalda is exactly where he left him. Across his lap is an open notebook. Yalda scratches down words, looking up when Butch enters the room. “Everything alright?” he asks. His eyes look darker, and slightly alarmed. He sure is twitchy for a guy who currently holds all the cards, while Butch has got nothing. 

“Mm, yeah, fine.” Butch tries to get a look at the Scribe’s notebook. “What’s that?”

“Oh!” Yalda turns the notebook around, propping it up on one knee. “Plans for a small generator.”

Leaning over, Butch looks at the drawing. It’s rendered in fine detail, with tiny lettering labeling each piece. Almost too small for him to read what the components are supposed to be. Every one of Yalda’s lines are precise, perfectly straight, or the angle of the curve exact to the correct degree. But he has no tools to guide his hand. “I’m not sure we can actually build it. The parts we scavenge, they’re not to scale. But if we had better metalworking equipment…” Yalda trails off before refocusing the conversation. “What do you think of the plans?”

Butch stands back up straight, shaking his head. “I dunno. Um, I don’t know much about like, engineering? I guess. Not real things like that.”

“Right,” Yalda tilts his head to one side, his dark hair falling in front of his forehead. “They said you were a programmer?”

Sitting on the edge of his cot, Butch runs his feet along the floor. It’s just cold concrete. “What else did they tell you about me?” He needs to know what they know. If the Brotherhood here can connect the dots back to the Mojave, or out to the Capital. Butch doesn’t think they can; it’s been a lot of years. But if they do know...he doesn’t know. Fuck. Maybe that would make him valuable. But it might make him a threat too. He and Tate wrecked that bunker out in the desert...killed everyone.

“Um, not much? That your name is Butch DeLoria and you made all those terminal games. Ah! I’ve played a few of them. They’re actually really popular here. I like ‘Fallen Sword’ best.”

That’s some dumb shit with a stick figure fighting some other stick figures. As the avatar takes damage, its limbs fall off one by one, until you’re fighting just as a head on a stump. Butch hates that one. He hates most of his games because by the time he’s finished, all he can see are the parts he should have changed. So he resolves to make a better one, and the process repeats. 

Yalda worries at the cords and shit wrapped around his wrist, “And they told me you must have been a vault dweller, because, you know,” he nods towards Butch’s wrist. “And,” Yalda licks his tongue over his teeth. “That you are very smart.”

Butch snickers, he can’t help it. Because that’s not what Yalda intended to say. He’s very transparent. Butch isn’t sure what phrase he replaced with ‘you are very smart,’ but it was something. 

“Sure, fuck, whatever.” He falls back onto the mattress, pulling his legs up. While it’s still early, he’s tired. 

He hears Yalda stand, pattering to the door to flip off the light. In the darkness, he strips out of his robes before climbing into bed himself. “I hope you sleep well, Scribe DeLoria.”

Butch feels his stomach flip.

\--

In the morning Yalda escorts him to breakfast, then all the way back to his desk in the other building. As they cross the parking lot in the early haze of morning, Butch tries to figure out what’s going on in the other buildings. Whether they’re more housing or prisoners or workspaces or what. Maybe workshops? Or weapons caches? He still doesn’t know what they do here. Other than Yalda can design machines he can’t build. 

Yalda chews at his lip the whole time, until it turns angry and red. “I think Head Scribe Jackson will be by today to see you. Or, at least her assistant,” he scrapes his nails along the wall of Butch’s cubicle. “If they don’t, let me know, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Butch nods, anything to get Yalda out of his hair at this point. Having him around is fucking suffocating. 

Suffocating too are the Scribe’s robes. Earlier, Yalda insisted that he must wear the robes. Going so far as to playfully threaten stealing the rest of his clothing, before biting the tip of his tongue and looking away. Butch doesn't like how they hang on his body, like the high collar is gonna choke him. He tries to loosen it more, ending up tearing the collar. Whatever. Fuck it.

After thirty minutes of trying to listen in on what other people are doing, another Scribe arrives at Butch’s cubicle, arms laden with documents. She drops them in a pile onto Butch’s desk before pushing ash-colored hair away from her face. “Hello, I’m Scribe Mirabella, assistant to the Head.” She offers out her hand. “Good to have you aboard.”

The Brotherhood’s collective amnesia regarding the circumstances of Butch’s arrival is staggering. Why bother? Why lie? He's been nothing but cooperative. But he seethes at the thought of being here voluntarily. 

“Uh, yeah,” he shakes her hand.

Scribe Mirabella must be approaching sixty, from the way her crows feet fan out around hazel eyes. She still looks sharp, alert, but her hands are swollen, and even with the water under her skin, her joints are coarse. “So, these are for you,” she gestures to the stack of papers. “Printouts of old missile commands. Every code assigned to targets across the Northwest, out almost to Nebraska, just short of Alaska to the North. We’d like to get them automated. Turn the numerical system into a natural language one. Think you can manage?”

Butch only half understands her request, but he ain't about to ask for clarification. “I ain't got a-”

“Terminals!” She exclaims. “Of course, you need a station to work on. Just,” she reaches into one of the pockets of her robe, pulling out a PDA. Butch has seen these before, old-style Pipboys that don't bioseal. A bunch of them out West. But he doesn't know why he never saw one back East. “Tell me what you need, I'll do my best to accommodate.”

Butch just mutters out that two terminals will do for now, and a splitter so they can share monitors when he needs. He's never worked with anything more complicated than that. For a moment, Butch is worried that he’ll be found out. That Mirabella will realize that he's a fraud, totally unsuited for any sort of serious work. They’ll put a laser through his skull, unwilling to waste the food or space. 

But Mirabella breezes back out. Presumably to check on someone else. Butch buries his face in his hands, his loose robes pooling to his elbows. Fucked, he's so fucking fucked.

\--

His terminals take another two days to arrive. After that, Butch spends his time splitting out Mirabella’s stack of papers into piles. He tries to make it look like they're organized, somehow. Like he's got some system he's working from. But he doesn't. He's got no fucking clue. On the fifth day, Mirabella asks him if there is anything else? He asks for a cable to attach his Pipboy to the terminal. She hits her flat hand against the edge of the cubicle wall exclaiming, “Sorry! Didn't think of it,” before leaving.

An hour later, Yalda arrives with the cable in his hands. Butch bristles.

Every moment he's not caged in at his desk, this fucking Scribe has been at his side. Fucking atrocious to see his face now, soft smile on his lips and the black cording twisting around his hands. Makes his hands look paler than they really are. 

“Thanks,” Butch mumbles, pulling the cord from him.

Yalda folds his arms, resting them on the wall and peeking his face over the side. “Could I maybe, watch?”

Butch bites the inside of his mouth, keeping himself from cursing, “Why?”

“I don't have a lot of experience with Pipboys, is all.”

“Don't you have the other one?” he snaps.

Yalda takes half a step back, “Which other one?”

Butch keeps his eyes on the terminal screen. With his Pipboy plugged in, he transfers the display from his wrist to the larger format. Easier on his eyes, but he still has to control everything from his wrist. “The one with the battery in it.” The one you fucks stole from Tate.

Shaking his head, Yalda replies, “I haven't seen it.”

Maybe if he says nothing, Yalda will leave. Butch won't have to see his fucking face until dinner. After several long minutes, Yalda proves him right, leaving without another word.

\--

Instead of working on the launch system, Butch makes another game. Because, fuck it, when they go to skin his ass for being a fuck up, maybe they'll get some fucking laugh out of it. He calls the game “Prisoner.” And endless stream of escaping from more and more complicated mazes. The traps are randomly generated. Hitting the wall results in death.

Butch wonders if the walls of the office building can be rearranged the same way.

There was that guy, back in the Mojave, what was his name? At the solar array. Fantastic. Fan-tastic. Who told the NCR he had a theoretical degree in physics. Thought he was real smart. But he was real scared too. Butch laughs to himself, because he thought Fantastic was a fucking idiot for ever pretending. The NCR was as sure to skin him as raiders, once they realized. Now he’s miming the same game.

By the time “Prisoner” is finished, it's mid-October. He asks Yalda if he wants to try it. To his credit, Yalda says nothing about Butch’s assigned project. He's only happy to see the game, to play it himself.

“This is amazing,” the green cast of the terminal light falls against his face. “You're amazing.”

Butch shrugs his shoulders, reaching into his back pocket for his cigarette pack that is never there. Hasn't had one in weeks. Yalda never found him any. So, while the Scribe’s mood is bright, cursing happily when he dies again, Butch asks, “You haven't found any cigarettes, have you? Or how I might get some?”

Yalda’s face flushes red. “I'm sorry! I'll try again, asking the Field Scribes, or the Knights.”

Whether Yalda does, or doesn't, doesn’t matter. But it would give Butch something to do with his lips and hands.

\--

In the shower, Butch thinks of Tate’s face. There are these lines, just starting to deepen, at the corners of Tate’s eyes. They started faintly at twenty-three, when the fucking Chip fucked them. Their second time playing happenstance heroes. Should have never been a first time. Tate isn’t wired right for this, neither is Butch. But those lines were so delicate then, almost nothing. Butch is prone to forget they're even there.

He thinks of Tate’s skin, pulled over hard muscle. Narrow hips poking through, becoming visible when Tate wears his pants too low, which is almost always. He's a fucking tease, the way the waistband of his boxers shows between where his tee ends and his pants begin. How he would stretch out on the couch, hands over his head, his stomach exposed.

Tate naked, his legs spread, panting Butch’s name. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, oh,” strangled and coarse once Butch is finally sheathed inside. How he always asks for, “Harder. Wreck me.” 

He smiles more now than he used to. But he’s still volatile. He runs into the ocean fully dressed, sometimes, to scream at the horizon. Butch had said he was acting childish, for throwing a plate against the wall during an argument. Tate snapped back that, wasn’t it better, to throw it at the wall, instead of Butch’s fucking face? Didn’t expect Tate to bolt from the house after that, try and lose himself in the waves.

But Tate had marched back out of the water, after a few minutes of shouting incoherently. He’d muttered, “Sorry, sorry,” and fallen asleep on the couch. In the morning, he’d snuck back into bed and kissed Butch’s face all over. 

Butch has to got shake the frustration off, like shedding skin. And thinking about Tate’s recklessness doesn’t help. So he thinks about his pleas instead. The way his body tenses before he comes, his hair sticking to his forehead as he sweats. His fingers at the nape of Butch’s neck, sliding strands of hair between often-broken fingers. They’re both dented everywhere.

Butch strokes his cock with one hand, the other pressed flat against the shower wall. He thrusts into the circle of his fingers, trying to make Tate’s voice ring in his ears, over the sound of streaming water. Though the stalls are private, noise carries through the bathroom. He has to stay quiet as he works himself. 

I love you, only you, only ever you. This world is garbage, and so are we. But fuck them. Fuck them. I love you.

Panting, Butch wipes his cum off the shower wall with one hand, letting the stream of water wash it down the drain. 

If Tate doesn’t show up soon. Butch will find a way out of here. He’ll start running, meet Tate halfway, and torment the hell out of him for being late to the fucking party.

\--

The day before November begins, Yalda presses three boxes of cigarettes into Butch’s hands. Next, he pulls a half-full lighter from the pocket of his robes. All three boxes are different brands, but Yalda looks quite pleased with himself. “I hope these will do.”

They've already been to dinner, so Butch sits on his cot, back against the wall, and lights his first cigarette. Fuck. Fuck it feels good, filling his lungs up with heavy smoke. It feels like home, seeping through his blood. For a moment, he’s about to forget just how shit everything is. But he doesn’t have an ashtray, so embers end up on the bedsheet, going out just as quick.

Yalda hands him a coffee cup, stained brown at the bottom. Butch mumbles his thanks, tapping off the rest of the ash. He seats the cup between his thighs. “What do I owe you?” Butch figures there’s a favor embedded in here somewhere. 

Sticking his hands into his sleeves, Yalda corrects, “Nothing,” before sitting on the edge of his own cot. “I’m just glad I could get them for you.”

Butch finishes two cigarettes before saying anything more. “I’m not getting keys, am I?”

Yalda seems to sink more into his robes. “I don’t think so…”

“And I’m not getting my own room,” this time, it’s not a question.

Yalda only shakes his head. “They told me you were. And, I mean, I’ve told them. I’ve told them how good you are! Some of the other sponsors, they have so much trouble with their recruits.”

Butch winces. He doesn’t want to hear it, how obedient he’s been. Following orders best he can, even if he’s not making dick for these Brotherhood assholes. At least, they haven’t noticed yet that he’s completely ineffectual. 

“Whatever,” Butch finishes his third cigarette, dropping the filter into the cup before setting it on the floor by the side of the bed. 

\--

Butch runs through the cigarettes quickly. Within a matter of days. Yalda brings more to his desk, four boxes tied together neatly with string. Most are already half empty. He chirps that it shouldn’t be a problem from now on. His friend, Violet, is a Field Scribe, and she’ll bring more when she returns. 

Trying to get more information, Butch asks where she’ll be returning from. Yalda looks down, admitting that he doesn’t know. And for the first time, Butch considers that Yalda isn’t here by choice either. 

\--

Midway through November, Yalda tries to kiss him. 

They’re in their shared room, really Yalda’s room. Though, by now, Butch owns just as many useless objects. A stack of magazines, another pair of pants, though he still has to wear robes during the day. Half a dozen pens he keeps forgetting are in his pockets when he leaves the office building in the evening, always at Yalda’s side. His possessions are so meager. But it doesn’t matter, he’s not staying.

He comes back from the bathroom, a towel around his shoulders. His boxers are getting wet, because he didn’t take the time to properly dry. Public spaces are starting to make him uncomfortable. It’s like leaving the vault all over again. This is going to drive him mad.

Yalda sits cross-legged on the bed, sketchbook in his hands as always. Though this time, the pictures are not of machines, but of birds. Butch has seen them too, perched around the edges of the compound, trying to snap up what scraps they can. There are precious few.

Butch doesn’t mean to stare at the notepad. Only, he’s thinking about the big, fat crows back East. The ones so huge, he doesn’t understand how they ever made it off the ground. Yalda must mistake his absentmindedness for interest. 

“They’re handsome, aren’t they?” Yalda asks. 

Butch just shrugs his shoulders, turning away to go through his footlocker for a shirt. As he’s bent to grab it, he can hear Yalda getting out of bed, the springs creaking. When he stands, Yalda is painfully close by his side. 

His breathing is rushed, in and out through his mouth. And Butch can practically hear his heartbeat. Another half step, and Yalda’s hands are on his arms. Butch’s fingers are still curled in the fabric of his tee. Their kiss is brief, and nervous. Yalda’s eyes are closed. 

Out of instinct, Butch shoves him away. Too hard, maybe, given that he’s stronger than Yalda. Much stronger. The Scribe tilts backwards, narrowly avoiding hitting the opposite wall and bringing his hands to his face. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t say anything. Bolting from the room, Yalda slams the door behind himself. Butch tears at his hair. Because he’s not sure what the repercussions will be. Yalda is just a fucking idiot. And probably lonely. Butch is lonely too. But Yalda is also his minder, his fucking babysitter. And this could be bad, fucking bad.

Yalda has left his keys behind. Sitting out on top of his footlocker. 

Shoving aside worries about repercussions, Butch grabs the keys, along with his cigarettes and lighter. He has to move fast, Yalda can’t get far without his keys, though he’s probably speaking to a superior officer right now. About how Butch is no longer a good little Scribe, about how his rations can better be allocated to someone else.

Butch uses the key to get outside. The stuttering of the turrets brings him back to himself. If he breaks into a run, he won’t get far. Right now, everything is trained on keeping intruders out. But they can easily switch to gunning him down. Fuck, fuck.

He ends up sitting on the pavement, mere feet from the door. Pulling his knees to his chest, he lights a cigarette. The sky above him is clear, clearer than he’s ever seen. Stars are pinpricks in the blanket of the sky. Little holes through which he wishes he could slip.

There’s a knock at the door. Turning, he sees Yalda’s face pressed against the glass window in the center. Fuck.

Butch pushes himself up, using the key again to open the door. Yalda’s eyes are red. There’s a trail of salt along his cheek. Butch expects there to be a pistol in his hand. “I’m so glad I found you,” Yalda breathes.

“What the fuck happens now?” Butch takes another drag.

Yalda shakes his head, “I just--I’m sorry. They told me...about your husband. I should have...I shouldn’t have.”

Narrowing his eyes, Butch asks, “What did they tell you about ‘my husband?’”

“That he was killed, when one of the Followers tried to resist. Caught in the crossfire.”

Butch laughs. He can’t help it. Fucking, what the fuck? “No, one of the Knights shot him. There was no fucking ‘crossfire.’”

Yalda raises his hands, as if to surrender, or defend himself. 

“They said he wasn’t useful enough. So they shot him. They killed him.”

“No,” Yalda sounds quite certain, “it was a mistake.”

“Say that again, and I’ll kill you first,” Butch stamps out his cigarette on the pavement. “I could knock your block straight fucking off. And I ain’t never seen you fight. But I know you don’t stand a chance.” He shakes his head, “So what, you into grieving widowers or something? Because that shit’s fucked up. Or did someone tell you to do it? Thinking ‘cause I like men, I’d just throw myself at you?” Yalda’s cute, whatever, sort of. But not that fucking cute.

“No! I...I was thinking about it before. Since I first...When I learned, what happened to your husband, that’s when I should have known. That I shouldn’t…”

“Just shut the fuck up.”

But Yalda just can’t let it go. In a small voice, he asks, “How long were you married?”

It’s not past tense. “Eight years.” 

Yalda’s quiet until Butch decides it’s time to go back inside.

\--

It’s the week before his 30th birthday, December 20th, 2287. Everything has gotten so cold. The furnace is malfunctioning. Yalda has been called to try and fix the problem. 

Butch is walking to the bathroom when it happens, his feet bare and without a shirt. A door that has always been locked swings open, an arm reaching out to drag him inside. 

He doesn’t shout, he doesn’t resist, because he already knows.

“Tate.”

Tate doesn’t bother responding, instead coming up on his toes, wrapping his arm around Butch’s neck, and dragging him down with such ferocity, they headbutt before their lips meet properly.


	3. Ten Years Ago You Thought You Knew Everything; Now You Know Enough to Fake Everything

There's nothing gentle between them. Not right now, with the months apart a chasm across which they sprint. Their kisses like water, streaming in to fill every crack and void between the rocks. Butch hadn't realized how dry his lips were until feeling them pressed against Tate’s again.

Grabbing Tate by his narrow hips, Butch slams him against the wall, pinning them in place. And for a moment, they're eighteen again, hiding in vault closets. Unable to hide from the ideology written in their blood. Tate’s arm stays wrapped around Butch’s neck. The other sleeve is pinned up to the shoulder, so it doesn't hang.

“Butch, fuck,” Tate uses the wall at his back and his arm around Butch’s shoulders to hoist himself up, wrapping his legs around Butch’s hips and locking their bodies together. Fucking acrobatic show off shit, because like this Butch can't do anything productive, like grab Tate’s cock. All he can manage is a frantic grind against Tate’s body. He's leaking through his boxers and Tate’s being too fucking loud every time they brush up against each other just right.

Whoever gave Tate this fucking orange uniform should be murdered. Like just straight fucking murdered, because it clings to all the right parts of his body, across his chest, thighs, and ass. And if Butch can't get him out of the damn thing he feels like he's gonna die himself. But he ain't got the hands to work Tate’s zipper. He ain't got the hands for anything but holding Tate in place so he can attack his face and neck with lips and teeth.

He doesn't even have the presence of mind to ask Tate what took him so fucking long. He barely has enough air to say, “I fucking need you.” They've needed each other for a long time. Since they were kids, really, and the vault was gonna suffocate them because there's never enough air when they're in the same place. Gotta share or they’ll die.

Tate uncurls his legs from behind Butch’s back, dropping them to the floor. The boots he's got on make him maybe half an inch taller than he is normally but that's still a couple of inches shorter than Butch. He takes his hand to the front of the suit, starting to pull down the zipper. There are so many fucking buckles and clasps on the damn thing. Butch tries to help, unlatching straps with both hands shaking, trying to get Tate out. Tate’s wedding band is still there, hung around his neck.

They barely manage to get the suit off his shoulders, pushed down to his waist, before Butch needs to taste him again. Confirm that this is real and not some delusion that he's produced out of his loneliness. For a second, Butch is terrified that he's in a simulation. One that can see all his hopes and fears. Like they're going to pull him out at the moment of climax, Tate never having been here, enveloping him at all. But he pushes the feeling aside when Tate’s voice rasps, “Fuck, hurry up.”

Because it's so unsentimental. It's so direct and needy. Not that they can't be fucking saps too. One of the casualties of getting old, or something. Shit starts meaning shit when it didn't before. But that's a fucking lie, because this, them, they've always meant something.

Butch drops to the floor, taking Tate’s uniform with him, letting it pool around his ankles. Tate’s hand drops into Butch’s hair. “Need you in me, though. Butch, fuck.” 

“Don’t have anything,” Butch says. But it should be fucking obvious. He’s just in his boxers. And unless there’s some sort of hidden compartment in this fucking orange suit, Tate ain’t got anything either. Just his hard cock sticking in Butch’s face, so simple to just lean forward and swallow it down.

“Don’t care.”

It’s been months though. Tate will be too tight. Unless.

Butch stills, his palms flat against Tate’s bare thighs. “Tate, how did you get here?”

“Butch,” his voice is all needy, with frustration bubbling under the surface. “Please, just fuck me.”

Grabbing Tate by the hips, Butch gets him turned around so he’s facing the wall. He uses both hands to pull Tate apart before leaning forward, swiping his tongue against Tate’s hole. Tate’s thighs tense in response, his breath hissing. 

“Fuck, oh fuck. Missed you, missed you.”

Butch stays quiet, trying to lick Tate open, it’s the best they’re going to manage in terms of preparation. He already knows he’s not going to be able to talk Tate out of this. Never can once he sets his mind to something. So Butch works him open with his tongue, switching to moistened fingers as soon as he can. Standing up, Butch licks the flat of his hand, wiping the saliva over his cock. Shit, it’s not enough. He’s going to hurt Tate. Not like Tate ever seems to mind. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Butch chants as he lines himself up. When he starts pushing in, Tate’s back arches lewdly, trying to meet him, to take him. His fist is curled against the wall, tension up and down his arm. 

Butch gets about halfway in before Tate hisses, thrusting back and forcing Butch to move faster than he intended. From Tate’s strangled gasp, Butch knows it’s too much at once. Leaning forward, he kisses the back of Tate’s neck, brushing aside his hair to make space. Fuck, fuck he missed this so much. The conditions are shitty and Tate’s in pain. But he missed this. He missed Tate.

“Move,” Tate pleads, “just move. It’ll get better.”

Butch doesn’t want to think about how relieved he is, that Tate is all wound tension. While he’s not stupid enough to think that fucking someone else would make Tate any different physically, that he’d be like, loose or fucking whatever. There’s that part of him that can’t forget. Can’t forget all the other hands and cocks that have been in and on Tate. And if there were another now. Fuck. If Tate’s desperation, his willingness to do anything, for them, would have driven him. Butch doesn’t know, he doesn’t know!

Wrapping his arms around Tate’s torso, Butch holds him close as they grind together. Sheathed all the way inside Tate now, Butch could scream, or cry, just something. Because he was starting...starting, to go fucking up the walls. But the heat of Tate’s back against his chest is just too good. Would like it better, facing each other, but there’s no way to manage in the cramped closet. So Butch snakes his hand down to wrap around Tate’s cock, hard and heavy in his hand, and stroke. 

“Fuck, missed you so much, missed your stupid face and your stupid cock,” Tate babbles as they get closer. Butch wants to hiss that they should stay quiet. But he can’t bring himself. If he can’t see Tate’s face, he wants to hear his voice at least. “Love you, love you so much.”

Tate’s body tenses around him, cum spilling out over Butch’s hand as he pumps him dry. There’s this whine that Tate can’t stop as he comes. And that noise is just about Butch’s undoing. Tate is too warm and sweaty against him, but Butch shudders as he comes, his nose pressed into Tate’s hair. 

“Love you, Tate.”

“Mmm,” Tate practically purrs with contentment. But it can’t last. They’re still stuck in this closet. And Butch doesn’t know what the plan is supposed to be from here. He grabs his boxers off the floor, stepping into them. While Tate doesn’t ask for help getting dressed, Butch at least helps him with the final buckles on the jumpsuit. 

They kiss one more time before saying anything. Because Butch still needs it. Maybe Tate needs it too. Not bothering with an excuse, Butch curls his arms around Tate’s waist, holding him close while they talk. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Butch asks.

“Sorry, took me awhile to get kidnapped,” he smiles.

“What did you tell them?”

Tate keeps his hand flat against Butch’s bare chest. “Do you really want the answer to that?”

Screwing his eyes shut, Butch feels that pain in his chest again. The one he beat back with Tate’s affections. “Yeah, I do.”

“I walked to the Followers camp at Silicon View. Figured, I don’t know, if they were looking for more scientists, maybe they’d do a raid there, or had already done a raid there.” Tate shakes his head, “I have no idea what the fuck they’re doing, but I hung around View for awhile, thinking they’d show. But they never did. All I knew was the Vertibirds were heading North when they took you. So I kept walking. 

“I dunno the name of the settlement...but it ain’t there anymore. The Brotherhood were doing it like they did Monterey. Only, there weren’t any Followers. They just took the town doctor, and started killing everyone else.”

Butch keeps his hands on Tate’s waist, “How did you get here, Tate?” He’s avoiding the question.

“The Sentinel in charge. I convinced him to take me.”

Butch snaps, seeing white and red and nothing else, ready to punch the wall behind Tate’s head. But Tate is still faster, quicker reflexes. He grabs Butch’s wrist before he can make impact with anything. Maybe he thought Butch was gonna deck him. He wasn’t. Honest. But maybe Tate thought he was. Tate just holds Butch’s wrist in his hand. 

“He hasn’t done anything, yet. He won’t do anything.” Tate ghosts his lips over Butch’s. “I won’t let him.”

“What’s his name?” Butch asks. He might not be able to do a fucking thing. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to. That he doesn’t want to rip the Sentinel limb from limb just for looking at Tate. Just for considering putting his cock in him. 

“Trench.” Tate presses his mouth over Butch’s adam’s apple, scraping his teeth against skin before pulling back. “But don't worry, I can handle him.”

“If he touches you,” Butch huffs, “I'm fucking killing him.”

Tate smiles brighter than he should. “I know, love.”

“There's not enough food,” Butch explains, “what happens if you don't fuck him?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Tate clearly hasn't thought that far ahead. “I'll figure something out. If it comes to that.”

Butch can't help but push Tate’s hair out from in front of his eyes. It's gotten too fucking long. “How do we get out?”

“Do you know where my arm is? Or my Pipboy?” Tate asks.

Shaking his head, Butch admits that he doesn't. It's probably a lost cause, looking for them. “They keep me either locked in the office building across the parking lot, or locked in here with my roommate.” Fuck, how long does it take to fix a furnace? Yalda might be back by now. He might be looking for Butch, thinking he’s bolted. Butch isn't even sure how long he's been gone. Glancing at his Pipboy he realizes it's been more than thirty minutes, thirty-five maybe.

“I don't have a plan yet. I've only been here ah, two days?” 

“And it took you two days to tell me?”

“Couldn't figure out where you were before that. I ain't got a job here, I ain't got anything, really. No excuse to walk around unless it’s in this building. You need to figure out where my shit is.”

“Where does Trench think you are right now?”

“Sentinel Trench is enjoying a cocktail of med-x and bourbon that means when he wakes up with his pants around his ankles a couple of hours from now he's gonna think I'm smiling because of his limp dick.”

Butch groans, covering his face with one hand. “Okay, okay. I guess, I need to get back. Before I'm missed. Because I didn't fucking drug my sponsor.”

Smiling, Tate reminds him, “You smell like sex.”

“So do you, Nosebleed.”

“I'm supposed to.”

Butch glares at him, but Tate’s not wrong. “I'll shower before I head back, I guess. When can I see you again? And how? You can't get in the habit of pumping Trench full of drugs...can you?”

“Trench goes back out in three days. I'll see you then,” Tate squeezes Butch’s hand. “I'll figure something out. Just, don't get yourself in trouble. See if you can figure out anything, okay.”

“Okay,” Butch slumps his shoulders. “Okay. Don't get yourself in trouble either.” He leans down to kiss Tate goodbye, because he's not missing the opportunity.

\--

Yalda doesn't return to their room until after midnight. He tries to be quiet, but the light from the hall is so bright, there's no way Butch can sleep through it. Butch rolls from his side onto his stomach, sticking his face into his pillow and trying to blot out the light.

Stalking into the room, Yalda strips from his robes. He drops them into a pile on the floor. Butch doesn't look up as he climbs onto the mattress.

The room is quiet for a long time. But Butch is too on edge to fall asleep easily. He tries to conjure anything to make himself sleep. He tries to think of the ocean, the house he hopes to see again. Maybe they’ll finally build out the rest of the first floor. Maybe they’ll take their time, using wood, rather than metal plates. Tate won't be of much help at all. Probably just sit on the couch, feet up, chewing on sugar bombs while Butch tries to figure out how the beams join together. That wouldn't be half bad.

Butch is nearly asleep again when he hears it. Yalda’s soft noise of frustration, just short of a sob.

\--

Over breakfast, Butch makes a request of his sponsor. “I need Tate’s Pipboy.”

“What?” Yalda asks with his mouth full of half-chewed zucchini. He swallows thickly. “Who's Tate?”

Butch slumps into his chair. He's not hungry anymore. The vegetables are always full of rads. He's not sick, yet. And he'd like to keep it that way. “My husband’s Pipboy. It was taken. I need files off of it, for my project.”

“Oh.” Yalda’s eyes narrow, staring at his food. “I'll try and see. I haven't heard anything but, I'll ask.”

They walk to the office together as always. It's gotten bitterly cold. Butch knows for certain now that they're North of Monterey, but the chill confirms just how far. His Pipboy map won’t load. He wonders if this is Canada, what was Canada. He considers asking Yalda, but thinks better of it in the end.

Safely deposited at his desk, Butch flips his terminals on. He's spent months waiting on Tate. Now that Tate is here, he doesn't have a plan. Butch isn't sure what he was expecting. This is pretty standard for them both, just figuring out what the fuck to do as they go along. Even when Tate acts like he's got a plan, there's no fucking plan. At the very least they're together now. So, there's that.

When the terminals finish booting, Butch resolves to do something useful. Just not something useful for the Brotherhood.

The terminals are wired into the network. Butch has known that since day one. But he hasn't tried anything suspicious, anything where he runs the risk of getting caught. Seeing Tate has made him bolder, reminded him of how much he can really do. Like when they were young, and he knew the vault’s systems back to front and around again. When they made it to the Mojave, he could make Yes Man dance to their tune, instead of Benny’s.

He opens up his long-neglected mail folder. Inside are dozens of ignored messages. Many are from Yalda, asking if he’s adjusting alright? Does he need anything? How he hopes Butch is happy here. They are constant for the first few weeks, then drop off suddenly. Yalda must have realized Butch doesn’t check his mail. Mirabella sent messages too, at first. But her correspondence ends with a message sent to Yalda, copied to Butch, to show Scribe DeLoria his mail system at his earliest convenience. Finally, there’s mail from Head Scribe Jackson, who Butch has never actually seen. But they’re not specifically addressed to Butch, but to the Scribes as a group. Summaries of how larger projects are advancing, reminders about targets, general well-wishing. Jackson’s messages are few and far between. 

There’s some other junk from other Scribes, again, not for Butch specifically. Nothing looks particularly useful. But now he’s more convinced than ever that the chain of command has no fucking idea what he’s doing. 

After finishing up with his mail, he navigates to a shared folder, checking what he has access to. Inside the folder is mostly garbage. A handful of text files and some executables. Butch tries to get one to run, but they all break upon launch. It’s becoming clearer why no one notices he’s not doing anything productive.

He reads the text files, because at least those open. Some of them are old, pre-War old shit left on the server. They used to provide technical support for Mr. Handy’s here, televisions, and holoplayers too. For all different manufacturers. Contract work with different electronics firms who were too cheap to staff their own support departments. Nothing fucking interesting, or useful. 

The more recent files at least have something he can use. Before the War, it used to rain a lot. Like, a lot a lot. But with the bombs, the rain stopped. Now the soil is totally fucked, filled with rads. Just...lots of rads. Enough to kill the crops for years. So, they subsisted off of pre-War packaged foods.

But that couldn’t last forever. So now the bioscientists are working to grow food. Right, Yalda had mentioned it. That’s why his geiger is always buzzing at meals. There’s still rads in the vegetables. But they gotta eat them, or they’ll starve. Filtering the water doesn’t help the soil. 

21-08-2277

Crop yield has stabilized. We estimate that we can support thirty-eight (38) additional personnel at Starfield. Recommend twenty-five (25) Scribe class and thirteen (13) Knight class. No older than thirty-five or younger than eighteen. 

For Scribe class recruits, we highly recommend those with previous medical and/or technical training. Paladin Hess may have Followers of the Apocalypse targets in mind. They have been working on Phase 3 preparations.

Scribe Valencia

Butch’s hands shake on the keys. This is why they were at Monterey. But he doesn’t know what Phase 3 is. Or why the Brotherhood are trying to bloat their numbers at “Starlight.” He’s never heard the compound be referred to as “Starlight” though. So maybe they’re being prepared for transfer? There isn’t enough information. But that’s the most recent entry.

He breathes deeply. This is where he might fuck up. Where he might not be good enough. And part of Butch has always been afraid of not being good enough. Or if he is good enough, helping the wrong people. A long time ago, Tate asked him, if he could ‘do science shit,’ why was it he was cutting hair in the vault. And while the answer he gave satisfied Tate, he’s never really been able to satisfy himself. 

First, he opens up the shared folder, looking for the root directory that houses it. The password screen comes up. His first entry has to be a guess. It always is, but hopefully there’s enough information, he won’t be wrong a second time.

TREMBLE 

INCORRECT: 2 OF 7

TRIGGER

CORRECT: 7 OF 7

Butch sits back in his chair, the folders blooming before him, stacks of them. From the root directory, there are seventeen clustered folders. Looks like they’re labeled by initials and call numbers? Something like that. Personal files of higher ranking Brotherhood members working off this same server. So, Scribes, probably. He starts by looking for names he knows. Nothing looks obviously like Yalda. Nothing starting with “Y,” but then again, Butch doesn’t know if that’s his given name or his surname or his only name or what. Wasters don’t always have two names outside the NCR. 

He looks for Mirabella next. MI03022215?

Another password screen. He can’t keep making mistakes and not expect them to be noticed. Taking the cord from the terminal, he plugs it into his Pipboy. Both screens now show the same information, asking for a password Butch can’t afford to get wrong.

“Butch?” Yalda’s soft voice rouses him from the screen. While his first instinct is to close out of everything as quickly as possible, Butch manages to maintain his composure. He doesn’t change a thing. Besides, from the angle, Yalda can’t exactly see anything suspicious. 

“Yeah?” 

“I found the Pipboy you asked about,” he folds his arms over the side of the cubicle, resting his chin on top of them. “They said I couldn’t bring it to you. But I could bring you to it? If you need something from it?”

“Yeah, fuck, okay, great.” Butch tries to look casual about detaching his Pipboy and exiting out of the folder. He at least knows the first password now, and a general feel for the file structure. He should be able to write a script that will erase his tracks too. It’s been awhile, but he knows how to do it. More and more, he’s convinced the other Scribes don’t actually know more than he does. It’s an advantageous position. He flicks off the terminal monitor before standing.

Yalda leads him back outside and towards one of the smaller buildings. It’s a single story, like the office, but maybe only one third of the size. There used to be large windows on all four sides, but they’ve since been boarded up. 

Instead of using his key, Yalda knocks at the door. Butch fidgets with his lighter in the pocket of his robes. He’s run out of cigarettes again. 

The door creaks open, a tall woman standing inside, her hair tied off into two black puffballs on top of her head. Her nails are painted a shocking lime green “You must be Yalda?”

“Yes,” Yalda replies, “and Scribe DeLoria.”

She steps inside to let them into the workshop. All the interior walls have been removed, creating space for workbenches. Most of them appear to be for armor or weapons. There are three power armor stations against one wall. Two with sets of armor latched inside. Butch tries to look for Tate’s arm too, though he can’t come up with a logical reason why he would need to see it.

Tate’s Pipboy is mounted on a stand, just at eye level. It’s been plugged into a terminal next to it on the long desk that houses miscellaneous objects. Small, pre-War appliances that look half-taken apart for scrap, another Pipboy with a broken screen, a few off-brand PDAs from RobCo’s competitors. 

“Get what you need. Tell me when you’re done.” The woman leaves Yalda and Butch be. It’s obvious enough that Yalda isn’t going to let Butch out of his sight. Problem is, there aren’t really files he needs on Tate’s Pipboy. Well, other than some old biometrics from before he took it off for the last time, Tate’s Pipboy might not have much on it at all. 

Butch takes the cable from the terminal and sticks it into his Pipboy instead. He might as well download everything. Later, he can sort through the mess. 

Hooked into Tate’s Pipboy, it’s not like Butch can actually go anywhere. Not without removing the Pipboy from the stand it’s latched into. Yalda hovers, unable to leave his side. Probably a condition of bringing Butch here at all.

“He must have loved you very much,” Yalda says.

It’s so fucking inappropriate. Butch is stunned, his mouth hanging open. But he does come up with a reply, after he watches Yalda’s ears turn red. “More than anything. We’d move stars for each other.”

They wait in silence for the transfer to end.

\--

Before Butch falls asleep, he flips through Tate’s files on his Pipboy. The green glow of the screen casts shadows across his face. If it keeps Yalda awake, he never says. 

Tate is somewhere here, in this building. Trench’s room, no doubt. But Butch doesn’t know where that is. Even if he did, there’s nothing to be done right now. He closes his eyes, trying not to think of Tate on his back for another man. Hopefully, Tate is clever enough to keep himself safe. Hopefully he’s level enough not to fuck the Sentinel anyway. 

But he can’t help it, thinking about Tate, who he can almost taste now, but won’t be able to touch for another two days, at least. 

Opening his eyes, he looks at the Pipboy on his wrist again, navigating to the right folder, the one filled with Tate’s files. 

It’s mostly standard stuff, like Butch expected. Biometrics, inventory lists, maps. Everything but the maps are out of date. He uses Tate’s map config files to quickly fix his own. Butch could never figure out a way for the other functions to update automantically without the Pipboy unit being biosealed to Tate. That’s still way out of his league. 

But there are other folders too. Dozens of notes from the Capital and the Mojave and everything in between. The journey they made up the Pacific Coast, before they stopped in Carmel. Every favor everyone ever asked of Tate, rendered in neat lines of text. They look so harmless like that. Rather than the slicing scrawl of tasks that carved Tate up, year by year. Butch has those scars too, from when he was called “Courier Six.” Tate was on that list too. Just luck that it was one of them, and not the other. Butch doesn’t regret for a second that it was him who got shot above Goodsprings.

It occurs to Butch too late that there may be something personal in Tate’s Pipboy. Something he wouldn’t want Butch to see. They’ve known each other since they were babies. He’s loved Tate since he was sixteen, though he had no fucking clue how to say it. They’ve been married since Tate turned twenty-two. There’s not a lot of privacy left between them, though Butch knows there are things Tate doesn’t tell him. There are the months he was still below ground, and Tate was up above. He knows something happened, but they don’t talk about it. He’s not gonna make Tate say it.

There’s a folder full of poems. Tate’s writing. This comfort Butch knows about, and never questions. 

Protection only counts for so much  
When the fragments and filaments   
Rupture from the inside out

You thought I’d be safe here

I don’t know what her face looks like  
Because I can’t see it in my own  
Framed in concrete and rebar

Butch navigates to the next document.

Her eyes are blue  
Even when you say they can’t be  
That’s not how inheritance works

You tell me about Mendel squares  
Like that’s going to change a thing  
Her eyes are blue

He shouldn’t have read them in the first place. It’s his own damn fault.

“Scribe DeLoria, are you okay?” Yalda’s voice is soft from the other cot. 

Quickly, Butch flicks off his Pipboy screen. He’s fine, though his cheeks are wet. 

\--

Butch combs through Mirabella’s files first. Then Head Scribe Jackson’s. While he works, he chews on the end of his pen. There are still no cigarettes to be had. He doesn’t want to ask Yalda about it. Not when he may otherwise need favors. The brittle plastic cap shatters in his mouth, cutting the inside of his cheek. He spits the fragments into the wastebin under his desk. Fuck, that hurt. 

His script follows his path as he walks between folders, erasing any evidence he was ever there. He makes it into Mirabella’s mail, finding correspondence between her and Jackson regarding the raid on Monterey. 

He finds them discussing him. That he’s not a Follower, but is apparently an expert programmer. That he can set up wrist-mounted Pipboys to function without biological agents, that he may know even more advanced technologies than he lets on.

Joke’s on them. He knows even less than they suspect.

From the messages, he pieces together that fourteen people were taken in total from Monterey. If they really did kill everyone else, that means close to fifty people died. Their deaths are considered justified through Phase 3 planning. 

No ash was left behind, and every victim had their throat cut by hand. Machetes left around the settlement. Both Jackson and Mirabella express distaste, that the Elder’s plan is going to ruin them all. They needed the scientists, but there were better ways to get them. 

They are trying to start a war.

But not between the Brotherhood and the NCR. That’s what the machetes are about. They’re trying to make it look like a Legion raid. But Caesar has been dead for fucking years. They killed him, Lanius too. 

Butch’s hands shake against the desk. Fuck. They are so fucked. 

He forces himself to read a few more emails. Not daring to copy anything to his Pipboy, he races through, trying to commit as much information to memory as possible.

The settlement where they picked up Tate was probably Nixtown. There is a single mail about it, dated three days ago, saying only that the town doctor was recovered, no one else. But then on the food requisition form for the next day, two additional people have been added. One Scribe, and one Knight. Tate’s got to be that “Knight.”

Hearing footsteps approach, Butch calmly navigates back to his half-finished game. All he’s managed on this one is to make bullets that look like caterpillars. Beyond that, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. But he’s not making tools for real war. Not now. Not ever.


	4. All Plans Seem Like Good Plans When the Bar is Buried

Butch half expects to be pulled into another closet on the third day. Every time he passes a closed door, he tenses, expecting Tate to reach out and drag him in. The hours pass. He takes more trips to the bathroom than he needs, stretching his arms above his head each time before standing up. He walks the path from his cubicle, down the hall, to the men’s restroom, carefully restored and cleaned. The Brotherhood may not have enough food, but from the sharp smell, Butch figures they have plenty of bleach.

Working hours end and Yalda comes by to retrieve him. His hair has gotten so long, he's started to wear it tied back. Butch thinks it makes him look even more like a bird. Like, he's got plumage on display or something. Under different circumstances, Butch might say something. But he doesn't want Yalda getting the wrong idea. So he keeps his mouth shut.

“Ready for dinner?” Yalda always asks, as if Butch can answer anything but in the affirmative. ‘Nah, just leave me here, I'm expecting my delinquent husband who slipped in right under your noses.’

Butch turns off his terminal, pocketing the Pipboy cable. If Yalda notices, he says nothing of it. 

It gets dark very early now, but the floodlights keep the parking lot bright. Now Butch expects Tate to emerge from the darkness, smashing Yalda in the face so they can both jump the fence and run into the deadwood forest that surrounds the compound. 

Not until they're on the threshold of the barracks does Butch give up on that plan.

Over dinner he worries that Tate is already dead. That none of his pretty lies or excuses worked. Trench killed him when he refused to bend over. Worse, maybe Tate’s alive but the Sentinel took him out on mission. But that's not possible. Maybe if Tate really were a Knight, yeah. But it's not possible that they got him a new arm this quick...unless they gave him his old one back.

Butch can't help but run scenarios. He's not interested in his meal. Hasn't been interested in food for awhile. He knows he's lost some weight since arriving. The gauntness hasn't yet reached his face. But it will, soon enough. He's grayer too, along his sideburns and dusted around the crown of his head. Butch feels as if he's aged ten years in three months.

Yalda keeps conversation up, even when Butch says nothing. Slouching in his chair, he looks past Yalda, at the wall behind his head. It finally occurs to Butch to ask, “Were you born into it? The Brotherhood, I mean?”

Sitting back, his fork still between his fingers, Yalda answers, “No, they found me running around Yaletown at a kid. I don't remember my parents or anything.” He pokes at his carrot. It's boiled so thoroughly that it splits apart with his fork. “I was made a Squire, then promoted to Scribe when I turned 18.”

“Sorry, doesn't matter.” Butch breaks up his vegetables into smaller and smaller pieces. He’s well aware this means someone else doesn't get to eat. But he doesn't fucking care. Enough of these fucks will be dead soon enough. Maybe Yalda, too.

“You grew up in a vault, right? So you knew your family?” Yalda looks hopeful. Like Butch has got some kind of secret about familial bliss.

“You're told you're fucking born in the vault. You die in the vault. But it's never true.” Butch shakes his head, “Plenty of people died in that vault. I killed some of them.” Not really. That was Tate, and Amata. He didn't for real kill anyone until those junkie raiders that snuck up on them on their way from 101 to Rivet City. Charon shot the first one through the neck. Clean kill. But Butch was still using a 10mm back then and it had taken four shots, because he was only good enough to bang rounds into his torso and hope for the best. He watched blood bubble up from the raider’s throat, down the front of his mucked up armor. Watched the guy shit himself from shock before doubling over. Tate told him it got easier. He was right.

Yalda doesn't ask questions after that. He doesn't eat his carrots either.

Butch is ready to bolt on his own as they walk back to their room. He hasn't seen Tate, so he assumes the worst. But no, no he can't. Nothing as terrible as a tin can Sentinel is gonna get Tate. Never.

Still, it's easier to breathe when he spots Tate in the hallway, leaning against their door. He's dressed in one of those orange uniforms again, though this time, the left sleeve isn't pinned. He’s got a prosthetic, though it's not his one from the Followers. Doesn't look as nice. And from the bumps across his chest under the uniform, it doesn't look like it uses Tate’s socket. It's strapped into place somehow. 

Tate smiles, pushing off the door to stand instead of lean, and offers his right hand out to Yalda. “Scribes Yalda, DeLoria? Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He shakes Yalda’s hand first, before holding it out to Butch. What the fuck kind of fucking plan is this? What could he have possibly orchestrated in three days? “I'm Knight Wei, I've just been transferred in.” When he's finished shaking their hands, he brushes his hair away from his eyes. It's gotten too long again. “If I could borrow you both for a moment? Sentinel Trench left me with orders?” 

He looks at Yalda expectantly. Tate doesn't look a day older than Yalda, though he's got to have five years on the Scribe. Reaching up to his neck, Tate grabs his Brotherhood dogtags, hung on a ball-chain, folding them into his palm. Butch can see the leather cord is still around his neck too, but tucked into his uniform. Tate’s whole body language expresses sort of a naive nervousness. Butch isn't certain that tactic will work on Yalda.

In response, Yalda adopts his normal, flighty politeness, waving his hands about. “Of course, um,” he keys the door open, “Sorry, sorry, it might be a bit messy.”

Other than Butch’s ash cup and his discarded clothing from this morning, there isn't a single item out of place in the whole room. Butch bends over to scoop up his clothes, tossing them back into his footlocker. 

“Ah,” Yalda almost bites at his nails, before thinking better of it. “We don't have any chairs.”

“It's alright,” the pitch of Tate’s voice is slightly higher than normal. He eyes Yalda’s cot, before biting on his own nail as well. 

Once, Tate explained this to Butch. Mirroring? Matching your body language to someone else's in order to get them to like you more. Something like that. At the time, Butch had called bullshit, but watching Tate and Yalda’s gestures match up, bit by bit, he realizes what a simple manipulation it can be. 

“Oh you don't have to stand,” Yalda reaches forward, as if to take Tate’s hand, but stops himself short. Tate reaches the rest of the way, holding onto Yalda as they both move to sit on the cot.

Butch takes his place on his own, grabbing his coffee cup so he can smoke. Yalda grabbed him a new pack on the way out of the mess. He lights his cigarette as quickly as possible, not wanting to take his eyes off of Tate and Yalda.

They sit close together, closer than Butch would like. The thought of it does funny things to his head. Though Tate and Butch fucked three days ago, it was months of wanting and waiting before that. He shifts uncomfortably in his slacks. There's no risk of giving himself away, the Scribe robes cover everything. The same can't be said of Tate’s uniform.

“So…” Tate smiles softly, “Sentinel Trench is my sponsor, but he was recalled to the field this morning,” Tate drags his fingers along his own thigh. “He said I'm not fit to leave, not yet. I'm still getting used to the arm. And there aren't very many Knights left here...so I don't know.” Tate clearly knows exactly what he's doing. Butch frowns, he can't seem too eager. “He said you two were about my age? And so...maybe I wouldn't be so lonely?”

“Oh!” Yalda flutters his hands, “I suppose, ah. Well, do you have quarters assigned?”

“Yes,” Tate nods, “with Trench...I didn't mean,” he bites his bottom lip. “I know the Scribes have a lot to do during the day and all. But maybe just...to have someone to talk to at meals?”

“Yes, of course, of course!” Yalda smiles, “I didn't mean anything by it. Just, if you needed anything?”

Tate wraps his hands over Yalda’s keeping them from gesturing any more. Butch watches as he curls his fingers around Yalda’s longer ones, holding both of their hands in Yalda’s lap. Yalda makes allowances for the bulk of Tate’s shitty prosthetic. “Thank you.”

As if roused from a trance, Yalda tilts his head to look at Butch, “You don't mind, do you, Butch?”

Butch starts, not used to Yalda using his given name. There's a flush over Yalda’s cheeks, he's embarrassed he did not ask Butch’s opinion earlier. Tate shifts closer to Yalda on the cot, as if afraid Butch will say no.

“That’s fine.” He puts annoyance into his voice. “Not really up to me,” Butch frowns.

In mock excitement, Tate throws his arms around Yalda’s shoulders, nearly knocking them both down onto the mattress. Tate is laying this on pretty thick. Anyone less affection starved than Yalda would see right through.

But maybe not, because wicked thoughts rush through Butch’s blood as Tate pulls away from Yalda, tucking a piece of the Scribe’s hair back behind his ear. He half expects Tate to lean forward, brush his lips against Yalda’s fuller ones, and take this exchange of small attentions to an absurd conclusion. Butch doesn't want that, really, for Tate to touch Yalda, for Yalda to touch Tate. But he can't help the frustration watching them fuels.

“I guess, I should go back to my quarters,” Tate pulls away from Yalda, standing at the edge of the cot, knees still bumping against the corner of the mattress. “Before I forget, there is a box of salvage? Sentinel Trench has already gone through it, he said the rest was to be transferred over to the Scribes. Ah, I hate to ask but...I'm not to good, with this arm, not yet?”

“I can help,” Butch stamps out his cigarette against the inside of the mug. To hell with it if he looks too desperate. He's not giving Yalda the chance to volunteer himself. Not with an opportunity like this, to get a few minutes alone with Tate. To ask what the fuck is going on.

“Yes,” Yalda licks against his bottom lip, “Scribe DeLoria may be the better choice. I'll wait here, to let you back in.” He keeps his hands in his lap.

Butch shoves his cigarettes into one of the cavernous pockets of his robes before following Tate out. He doesn't know if there really is a box of salvage or not. But he's cautious, saying nothing as they walk through the barracks.

Tate leads them to the second floor, to the crosswalk that passes over top the mess hall, quiet and dark below their feet, visible through the grating. The higher ranking officers have quarters on this level. Butch has never been up here.

From the zippered pocket on his chest, Tate pulls a keycard, using it to open the door. Butch can't fucking believe he still doesn't have one of his own. Though he supposes, fuck, Tate has been left alone, without his babysitter. And Yalda is still fastened to Butch’s hip much of the day. What if regulations aren't as tight as Yalda makes them seem?

It's not until the door clicks closed behind them that Tate throws his arm around Butch’s shoulders, dragging him down to kiss. It's frantic right from the start. They probably don't have much time. Though Butch honestly can't say he knows what Yalda would do, if they took long hours to return.

“Butch, oh, fuck, Butch, help me out of this, I hate it.” 

Butch doesn't know if Tate means the uniform or the arm or the compound or what. But they start with the uniform. This time, they're faster, both knowing better where the buckles sit. By the time Butch starts tugging down Tate’s zipper, Tate is already tearing at the snaps holding the prosthetic in place. 

With Tate’s uniform off, they start tugging at Butch’s robes. They're easier, fewer moving parts, just up and over Butch’s head.

“Have you fucked him?” Tate growls against Butch’s neck. The room is still dark, neither of them have bothered to turn on the lights. “Have you stuck your cock in him? He’s so pretty, I’m sure you’ve thought of it.”

“Nah,” Butch tries to play it off. He hasn’t even thought of it. Not with any sort of intent. He knew well enough Tate wasn’t dead. That he would fight his way here. That the two of them will make it out of this hellhole alive.

“I was gone for months, Butch.” They’re nearly naked now, pressed skin on skin from their chests on down. Tate’s hand curls around Butch’s bicep, trying to push him...somewhere. The bed? Butch feels the backs of his knees bump against the cot. “Are you saying you passed up on him? Because I saw, I saw how you looked at him. Like you wanted to eat him alive.”

Tate topples them both into bed. They’re sideways on the cot and Butch can feel his hair brush up against the wall, narrowly missing hitting his head. Pulling at his waistband, Tate gets Butch out of his underwear too. They’re both hard, from the touching and the taunting. It’s like drowning, even now. Maybe moreso now, because they haven’t been apart this long since Tate left the vault that first time. They’re always in each other’s orbit, making the tides work.

“That wasn’t for him, Tate,” Butch rakes his nails down Tate’s sides until his hisses. “Was thinking about getting you alone.”

“Yeah right,” Tate laughs. “You’re a bad liar, tell me the truth.” He has to keep himself propped up on one arm, but it’s easy enough for him, has a lot of practice. 

“You wanna know?” Butch wraps his hands around Tate’s hips, pushing their groins together and shifting his weight to strain against Tate’s stomach. 

“Yes.” Tate punctuates the word with his hips, sharp and fast and without finesse. 

“Maybe I was thinking of both of you, just then. Thinking about you fucking him. Because yeah,” Butch admits, “he’s pretty. But you’re prettier.”

Tate hates being called pretty, but he sort of loves it too. From experience, Butch knows both of these things. Because Tate can’t believe it, no matter how many times Butch says it. So when Tate’s face tenses, Butch knows well it’s a mixture of both wanting to kiss and kill Butch for saying it. 

“Fuck off.” Tate stands up straight, their skin peeling away from each other. He pushes down his underwear, kicking them away. Holding his cock in one hand, he barely manages to say, “Suck” before Butch crawls up on his hands and knees on the cot, able to get his lips around it.

Tate’s always been more talkative. Sometimes it’s fucking annoying as hell. Though Butch appreciates the wordless vocalizations he can rip from Tate’s throat. And sometimes, yeah it’s fucking hot how Tate just wants to spell out everything Butch is doing or gonna do or what Tate is gonna do or whatever. But sometimes Butch just wants to sink into the salty taste of Tate on his tongue, or the feel of his fingers at the nape of his neck.

“You’d like that, huh?” Tate’s breath hitches, just so slightly, as Butch gets him all the way down, his nose against Tate’s pubic hair. “Watching me fuck his ass? What was his name? Yalda, right? Fuck, he’s even more of a…” Tate has never known the right word. And Butch hates the ones he’s tried on, like ill-fitting armor, because they’re vestiges of Tate’s...he doesn’t know...that fucked up ideology from the vault? That makes Tate think funny about himself and Butch, even now. “He’s wants it even more than I do. It’s your cock he wants, Butch. I can tell. But he’d take mine too. I bet he’d whine pretty, all breathy and high. He’s so greedy for it, Butch. Did he throw himself at you already?”

Tate pulls Butch off his cock by his hair, forcing their eyes together. Butch swallows down his excess saliva before answering. “Maybe.”

Frowning, Tate responds, “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

Butch rolls his eyes because it’s hardly fucking necessary. And while Tate might have actually fucking killed the kid ten years ago, under the same circumstances, Butch highly doubts he’d do it now. Kinda like Butch said he’d kill Trench. Like, fuck, Butch did kill Burke, but it feels almost like a different person did that. 

Who the fuck were they then?

“Get on your back,” Tate’s voice is softer now. He’s always fucking pushy as hell, so Butch doesn’t know exactly where this is headed. Butch listens, getting turned around so that his head is against the pillow. It doesn’t smell like Tate. But then again, they’re using different soap, different clothes. And Tate’s only been at the compound a handful of days. So maybe that’s it. There’s also the distinct possibility that this isn’t Tate’s cot.

Stepping away from the bed, Tate kicks open the footlocker. He pops open the bottle he grabs, turning it in his hand so he can squeeze lube onto his fingers. Butch doesn’t like that Tate knew exactly where that was. But he pushes the anxiety back down. If something had happened, Tate would have confessed. He’s always fucking looking for absolution. 

Tate drops the bottle onto the sheets, knocking into the side of Butch’s leg. “Is this how you thought of me fucking that Scribe?” Tate asks, settling in between Butch’s thighs and sliding his index finger around Butch’s entrance. He dips inside without too much trouble, pistoning his finger in and out. 

Butch splays his legs open. Fuck, he’s not gonna fucking complain about this. Though he doesn’t know what excuse he’s gonna give for being gone so long, because Tate is taking his sweet fucking time working him open. “Nah, thought about,” Butch arches his back as Tate slips a second finger in, slowly stretching him open. “Thought about you fucking him from behind. Fistful of his hair.”

Even in the dark, he can see Tate smile, white teeth, ferocious. “Up on all fours? So he can suck your cock while I fuck him?”

Butch groans. This is fucking torture now. Tate using every wayward fantasy against him. Knowing what paths to tread. “Yeah, Tate, you can fuck him onto my cock.”

For a second, Butch thinks that Tate is gonna flip him over, fuck him like they’re talking about fucking Yalda. Even though like, fuck, twenty minutes ago Butch was fucking serious that he hadn’t actually been thinking about Yalda like that. Even after the Scribe kissed him. It just...he wanted Tate. He always wants Tate. Tate always wants him. It’s like, fucking constellations or something. Just the way things are.

But Tate doesn’t flip him over because the way things are means Tate likes it better when they can look at each other. Likes watching Butch’s face, likes knowing that Butch can watch him. So Tate pulls his fingers out, sits back on his heels, and lines his cock up instead. Butch helps him, as he’s gotta tip forward and move his arm so he doesn’t land flat on Butch’s chest. Tate slots inside, their hips bumping together when he’s fully sheathed. 

“Oh, fuck,” Tate breathes, “You feel so fucking good, Butch, fuck.” Tate’s eyes are open. 

“You too,” Butch winces, because that sounds lame, but it’s true. He feels full and warm and like his fingers and toes are all electric as Tate starts pumping into him. His pace is deliberate, and slow. Keeping with the roll of Butch’s hips as he wraps his legs around Tate, locking them together. Butch slips one hand between them so he can pump his cock. Fuck, like this, Tate looks already gone, like he’s someplace else, but Butch is there too. Just like, they aren’t fucking in this stupid Brotherhood hellhole, fucking in a strange bed and coming up with terrible plans that’s probably gonna get people killed. But those people fucking deserve it for fucking with them. So to hell with it. 

“Butch fucking, fucking…” Tate’s speeding up. And Butch can already tell Tate’s getting close. He’s close too, tightly wound, trying to jump. But he sort of doesn’t want this to end either because he’ll have to go back to his room smelling of sex and Tate and blabbering an excuse that Yalda probably won’t even believe, but he might be too polite to correct. 

Tate comes first, buckling at the elbow as he rides through his orgasm, panting, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” because he fucking hates coming first when he’s doing this. Everything's a competition. But Butch isn’t far behind him, spurting between their bodies, mostly against his own stomach, chest, cum getting caught in the hair there. Which Tate also hates, and always has. Not that he hates Butch’s hair, but hates that he’s still mostly smooth.

Pulling out, Tate sits back, covering his eyes with his hand and breathing heavily. Butch sits up only so far as to pull Tate back down next to him. At first, Tate fights him, but gives up easily. They both need this, even if it’s only for a minute.

“I found your Pipboy,” Butch says, before pressing a kiss to the top of Tate’s head. “I think your arm might be there too.”

“I got you a blank keycard. I need you to program it though. And the turrets. There has to be a shut-off for the turrets.”

Butch nods. “Okay, okay yeah. Is there really a box of salvage?”

“Yeah.”

Then there are the other questions, the ones he needs so he doesn’t go fucking crazy. “He hasn’t fucked you, has he?”

“No, but I’ve had to kiss him.”

“Okay...okay,” Butch’s chest gets tight, but it’s not so bad. Tate’s doing what he has to, to survive. Butch grabs at Tate’s wedding band, still hung around his neck, leaving the dogtags on the outside.

“We should be out of here before he gets back. It will be easier for us to talk, now,” Tate shifts in Butch’s arms. But they’re still not looking at each other. “Yalda...you don’t really…”

“No,” Butch kisses Tate’s hair again, “Seriously, no. But he did...he kissed me. But I told him no.”

Tate taps his fingers against the center of Butch’s chest. Then tugs at the hair there. “Okay.”

They get Butch dressed again, after finally turning on the lights. Doing their best to wipe the cum off his chest with Tate’s undershirt, Butch can still feel it clinging to him. He can feel Tate inside of him too. He likes it. 

It’s hard to keep their hands off each other as they dress Butch. Tate ain’t going anywhere, so he doesn’t bother to put anything back on. He points Butch to the box of salvage tucked into the corner before grabbing the blank key from the footlocker at the end of the second cot. Well, that answers that question. 

Their kiss goodbye lingers longer than it should. Butch can already feel the ache of leaving. But it’s better now. At least he knows where Tate is, and that he’s safe. And his sponsor will be gone for days, at least. So, what he’s gotta do is focus on getting this key to work and figuring out the turret system.

He taps his foot against the door so Yalda can let him in. Fuck, he was gone almost forty-five minutes and he doesn’t have a smart excuse. He’s just sort of hoping something comes to him in the moment. Like, that’s how Tate says he does it. But that’s hardly a reasonable plan of action. 

Yalda opens the door, dressed for bed in a white shirt and boxers, but still smiling softly. He lets Butch through and doesn’t ask any questions. 

Storing the box by the door, Butch mumbles about still needing a shower. Yalda responds, “Of course,” with his usual, pleasant demeanor. If Yalda can smell Tate on him, in him, he says nothing about it. So Butch doesn’t need to come up with a stammered lie.

But he does leave for the showers still fully dressed, when normally he goes just in his boxers. Yalda doesn’t say anything about that either.

Butch doesn’t really want to wash away the evidence. He likes having it against his skin. Tate and him were always sort of gross like that, he guesses. But you know someone your whole fucking life and shit like that doesn’t seem so important. At least they have the same disgusting habits. But he doesn’t want Yalda asking why he smells like sex. And he definitely smells like sex.

Given the hour, the showers are empty, and that gives Butch enough time to look at himself in the mirror. Fuck, fuck. His hair is a mess. There’s no way Yalda doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t know that “Wei” is Tate, but he sure as fuck knows Butch fucked him, got fucked by him, whatever. Semantics, not important. He checks for bruises and finds none. So like, he supposes that’s one positive. 

Maybe Yalda is just too polite to say anything about it to Butch. But that doesn’t mean he won’t report on Butch’s actions. Once a week Yalda has those meetings for the sponsors. Where they like, Butch doesn’t even know, sit around the damn campfire and trade stories about their prisoners like they’re charming pets with annoying quirks of habit? If Yalda tells anyone, there’s gonna be fucking questions. Beyond like, how come these two guys jumped into bed together after ten minutes. But that’s maybe the first question. Fuck.

By the time Butch makes it back to their room, the door is cracked slightly open, the lights turned off. Yalda must have wanted to go to sleep. Yeah, of course, it’s late. Butch can hear him breathing on the other cot. He tosses his robes on top of his footlocker, then climbs into his cot. He’s too awake, too rumbling to sleep. But he has to at least pretend.

\--

Butch is stronger, so he carries the box of salvage across the lot, Yalda at his side. It’s really cold now, his hands starting to freeze up. In three days, Butch will be thirty. He can’t say this is how he expected to spend the occasion, carting boxes for the Brotherhood. Honestly, he expected he and Tate might be dead well before this. Given the way they lived straight out of the vault.

Yalda leads him to the workshop and knocks on the door. The tall Scribe opens again, taking the box from Butch’s hands and thanking them before shutting the door with too much force. Yalda starts a bit at having the door rattle in his face, but doesn’t comment further on the exchange. 

Once he’s been deposited back at his desk, Butch flicks on both terminals and his Pipboy. The spare blank key is in the pocket of his robes. If the system works at all like the one in the vault, this should be easy now that he has a primed key. Hell, he still has some of the scripts he needs on his Pipboy.

He loads the eraser in first, to cover his tracks as he walks the servers. Looking over the directories, he’s not entirely sure where he needs to go for keycard permissions. Maybe if he goes back out one more level. But he’s not sure if he’ll get password booted or something again. He’s gotta try.

The directory is just full of poorly organized shit. Stuff that looks like Brotherhood folders is still mixed in with shit from the support firm that occupied the building first. Fuck, they’re so damn messy. Okay, but maybe the keycard system has been Frankensteined together the same way, laying new permissions over an old system. Just because the barracks building has been built since the War, doesn’t mean someone didn’t just cobble together old systems, linking these buildings to the newer one.

There’s a directory labeled “TKR_Personnel” and inside are dozens of names, way too many to account for the number of Brotherhood members he’s seen since arriving at the compound. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t a bunch of Knights still out on deployment or something. Just because they can’t all sleep here at the same time doesn’t mean that they don’t have files. 

Butch starts flipping through them, and it’s a fucking jackpot. He sees names he can recognize, sort of YA13072263. He tries it, and yeah, it’s Yalda. It has to be. There’s not much there, his date of birth, some details about his being picked up in Yaletown. That he’s 5’10” and 140 pounds at his last physical. And below that, his rank information, and keycard privileges. 

Poking around some more, he scans by date of birth rather than initials. DE27122257 has got to be him, WE13072258 is probably Tate. Maybe he knew this would happen? That lying about his birth date would make Butch’s job poking around harder? Butch opens his own file first and yeah, there are details of his pickup in Monterey, that his spouse was killed. 5’10” and 170 pounds when he was brought in. Butch is fairly sure he’s a bit lighter now. There’s a note in his file that he is not to be issued a keycard, he’s considered a flight risk. But that only confirms what Butch already suspected. Another note, about potential sponsors...that someone young and male might be suitable. Fucking hell.

He opens up WE13072258 next, and yeah, it’s Tate. Picked up outside of Nixtown. Assigned to the Knight class. There’s no note of him being Trench’s...whatever, but Butch supposes that wouldn’t be in the official records. 5’7” and 150 pounds, that he’s missing his left arm to the shoulder, but otherwise in excellent health. With a reasonable prosthetic, he would be an effective Knight. Claims to already have power armor training. His keycard only gives him access to the barracks and room 204. 

Butch needs the code for the workshop. Tate’s Pipboy is in there and probably his arm too. But Yalda’s profile doesn’t have the permissions either. He needs to find them to copy over.

He can make the card a ghost, yeah. He makes a new profile, AL21082258. Getting the blank card attached is easy, just needs a serial number, which he can copy off the card itself. At a minimum, he goes back to Yalda’s profile, transferring Yalda’s permissions over to the blank card. After that, he’s gotta poke around.

Butch’s other terminal beeps. When he looks over, there’s a new window open. One he didn’t open.

JA04062265 > DE27122257: hey ur that scribe right  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: they said ur special  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: but i can see u in the personnel files  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: whos AL

Butch’s hands shake. Fuck fuck fuck. He types as quickly as he can in reply:

DE27122257 > JA04062265: who?  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: this is exactly why u dont have a card  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: ur ok but not as good as i thought ud b  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: dunno what u r talking abt

He slowly starts closing out of the personnel folders, trying not to look panicked. But his heart is pounding in his chest, blood screaming in his veins. He got too ambitious. Or he’s rusty, or something. And he’s going to get Tate hurt. Oh fuck. He can’t breathe.

JA04062265 > DE27122257: take me with u  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: i hate it here take me with you. or ill rat

Butch can’t do nothing. Okay, okay. It’s just another Scribe or something. A prisoner, like him. Who wants to get the fuck out of the compound. Maybe this isn’t so bad? It could be a trap too. But he ain’t got a choice, right?

DE27122257 > JA04062265: ya  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: cool no one else can see us talk  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: are WE and YA in too?  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: no

Butch doesn’t want to implicate Tate, not until he knows more.

DE27122257 > JA04062265: YA is my sponsor  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: yeh seen u with him  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: hes cute  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: …  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: what else do you need

It’s a risk. 

DE27122257 > JA04062265: workshop access, u know the one w the boarded windows  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: done  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: turrets  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: harder gimme time  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: just to turn off, right  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: yes  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: good  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: will let u know  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: ttyl

The window closes itself on Butch’s monitor. He can only hope he didn’t fuck everything up. Out of curiosity, Butch checks the personnel files again. JA seemed to suggest only they and Butch knew well enough how to get past this security. That no one else would even be able to see Butch on the network. 

Checking AL, he sees another entry under the keycard access. Has to be the workshop. Okay, okay. This could be worse.


	5. A Good Year of Bad Decisions, But Not Our Worst

Butch turns 30.

Yalda knows it’s his birthday. He says he’s brought pre-War snack cakes from the stores, no one will miss them. Presenting them unwrapped, on a paper plate, Yalda holds them out for Butch to take. It’s seven-thirty in the morning.

Butch sort of doesn’t have the heart to tell Yalda that he doesn’t much like Fancy Lads. So he bites into one, powder dusting onto the sheets. It tastes better than he remembers though. Fuck, he and Tate always loved pre-War crap like, that was all they had in the vault and something about that makes his chest ache for home, though he hasn’t worried about home in a long time.

Yalda smiles, sitting next to Butch on the cot, the plate still in his lap. He tears at the edges, ripping the paper a little. They still have to go to breakfast, though if Butch eats all the cakes on the plate he won’t have any room left.

“How did you know it was my birthday?” Butch asks. His tongue is dry from the powdered sugar.

“Oh, it was in the packet I got about you. You’re 30 now, right?”

Butch swallows, trying to rid his mouth of the sweetness. But it’s back on his tongue when he licks his fingers clean. “Yeah.”

They do make it to breakfast, because Yalda didn’t eat any of the cakes, insisting Butch should have them later, if he wants. But Butch doesn’t mind going to breakfast because that means he’ll probably see Tate, who has been sitting with them at meals in the mess for the last couple of days. Though Tate hasn’t figured out another way for the two of them to be alone yet. 

Tate waves at Yalda as he and Butch arrive. Yalda always waves back with a smile. Tate pushes his hair out of his eyes. He relies on that trick a lot. But it still works on Butch, so it’s probably fucking working on Yalda too. 

“Good morning!” Yalda says, sliding onto the bench next to Tate. They’ve been sitting like this, Yalda next to Tate and Butch across from them. Sometimes he can tap his boot against Tate’s on the outside. But he’d rather sit next to Tate and maybe brush his hand against Tate’s thigh. Fuck, fucking pathetic sometimes, how desperate he is to be close. The only balm for his frustration is that he assumes Tate feels the same.

But Butch has also noticed that Tate and Yalda sit closer and closer together, each passing day. Another week and they’ll be in each other’s laps. Like, he gets that this is part of Tate’s fucking plan or whatever. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“It’s Butch’s birthday today,” Yalda informs Tate.

“Oh?” Tate mocks surprise. “Happy birthday,” his smile is a little shy before turning his eyes down again. “We should do something to celebrate?”

“Yalda brought me Fancy Lads this morning,” Butch half-means it as a way to make Tate jealous. Though he regrets it almost immediately. Tate has to be trying to do something to get them out of here. Butch only wishes it were today, and not tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.

“You should come to our room, if you’re not busy,” Yalda suggests. “Maybe we can...I don’t know,” he laughs nervously, his hands twitching, “it seems a silly idea now.”

“No! No!” Tate corrects, grabbing Yalda’s wrists. “It’s a great idea, I’d love to,” he smiles back at Yalda, who at least looks comforted. “After dinner, then?”

“Yes, of course.”

\--

JA04062265 > DE27122257: where did you get that blank key  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: friend  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: who tell me tell me  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: i need one and i can do the turrets   
DE27122257 > JA04062265: ill get it  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: ur not being up front with me  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: i dont even know who u are  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: my mother is head scribe  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: ive seen you in the workshop  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: i opened the door

Butch realizes, the tall woman with her hair in puffs and bright nail polish. Oh, oh this could make finding Tate’s arm much easier. This could make everything easier. But she’s Jackson’s daughter. Right, JA. This could still be a trap. If he could only ask Tate, hopefully tonight he’ll get the opportunity. 

JA04062265 > DE27122257: happy birthday btw  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: thanks  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: listen i gotta ask someone  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: tomorrow ill tell you more

\--

Tate’s not at dinner. As usual, Butch assumes the worst. That something has gone wrong and Tate is already being fed to the wildlife. Yao guai, he’s sure there are yao guai in the woods. He knows now, from the records, that they’re definitely in what was British Columbia, Canada. But other than that? He has a street address for a street that doesn’t exist anymore. They’re a long way from Monterey.

He’s not interested in his food, but that’s not unusual. Yalda comments that Tate has missed dinner, but doesn’t say anything more on the subject. 

Relief floods through Butch when they catch Tate in the hallway, muttering apologies about having something to do up until this very moment. But now? He’s all theirs! He practically purrs and Butch is so riled up and frustrated he nearly grabs Tate by the front of that obscene armor to smash him up against the closest wall and fuck the hell out of him.

But Butch just clenches his fists in the pockets of his robes because there ain’t anything he can do with Yalda around.

Tate managed to find a set of cards during the day and suggests they play. The three of them sit on the floor, since there are still no chairs, and splitting between the cots won’t work well for a card game. Tate asks Yalda if he knows poker, then as an afterthought asks Butch too. Hard to tell if that’s part of this innocent charm thing Tate is trying. If he’s trying to make Yalda think he only has eyes for him, or he honestly forgot that he’s not supposed to know already that Butch knows poker plenty well from the year running around New Vegas. Sort of knew how before then too, but got good at it in Vegas.

Tate and Yalda sit with their shoulders against Yalda’s bed frame, Butch against his own. He keeps his ash cup by his side and smokes while Tate deals cards. Yalda admits he doesn’t quite know how to play, and Tate says that’s fine, he’ll help for the first couple of hands.

Pushing himself up off the floor, Butch leaves his cards face down when he goes to grab the snack cakes off the top of his footlocker. He puts the plate in the middle of the floor. “You two should have some. They’re probably already stale, though.”

Predictably, Yalda says he shouldn’t, but Tate leans forward and grabs one off the plate, shoving it into his mouth on the way back. His position on all-fours makes Butch sweat, but Yalda has the angle where he could get a good look at Tate’s ass. 

Tate gets powder on the front of his uniform, all over his fingers, his face. Butch has to stop himself from leaning forward to brush it away. Instead, he looks at his cards. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Yalda brush sugar away from Tate’s lips. Both of them laugh, and smile. Butch’s stomach flips.

“When is your birthday, Knight Wei?”

“Andrew,” Tate corrects, scrunching his nose, “you should call me Andrew.”

“Oh, alright,” Yalda looks back at his cards.

“July 13th. I’ll be twenty-three.”

Butch almost forgets he’s not supposed to know Tate is a lying sack of shit. Come on. There’s no way Tate can pass for a full seven years younger. Three or four, maybe, but not seven. No fucking way. That fucking vain asshole. 

“Oh!” Yalda exclaims, “I’ll be twenty-five on the same day!” They exchange smiles again. Tate looks over at Yalda’s cards, telling him what to do in a hushed voice.

Butch doesn’t want to play cards. But he wants Tate here, even if they can’t quite touch. Just out of reach. But apparently, Yalda can touch him to his heart’s desire. Fuck.

But Yalda is particularly absorbed in his cards, Tate looking over at Butch in a moment that is still not quite private. He mouths, “I love you,” and touches his fingers against the cord at his neck. Butch feels warm all over, mouthing it back.

The hour passes quickly, and Tate rests his head on Yalda’s shoulder. Butch gets the feeling that the gesture is really for him. Tate’s eyes keep drifting closed. 

It’s late by the time Tate stands up to leave. He’s a little wobbly on his feet, but Butch is sure that’s an affectation. “Happy birthday, Butch.”

Butch stands too, and all at once Tate is hugging him, arms wrapped around Butch’s shoulders and their bodies pressed tight. Fuck, Butch can smell his hair and his sweat and he nearly sobs. Because all he really wants is to be buried inside Tate. To hear him whine and say his name. He hasn’t been so desperate for sex since they were in their early 20s. But the stress of this situation, the fact he can’t just have Tate, that they have to hide who they are, it’s fucking destroying his willpower. It would be easy, so easy, just to push Tate into the bed, rip him out of that uniform. 

Tate leaves. Butch tries not to act like he’s gonna chase after him. 

After a moment in stunned silence, Butch says he’s going to shower. 

Waiting for him in the empty washroom is Tate. There are streaks against his cheeks. He pulls Butch into the back stall. This is no way to keep from getting caught. They can only hope no one comes in.

“I love you, I love you,” Tate rattles. “Oh fuck, we have to get out of here. What did you find?”

Butch has to pull himself away from kissing Tate more. Fuck, but it’s hard. He’s hard in his boxers and there’s no time. “Someone who can turn off the turrets. But she needs a blank keycard, can you get another?”

Tate nods, “I think so,” he pecks at Butch’s lips. They’re going to fuck up. “Yeah.”

“She wants to come with us. Her mother is Head Scribe.”

“Do you trust her?” Tate asks. His hands are wrapped around Butch’s hips. 

“I don’t even know her. We talk over the terminals.”

“We need those turrets off or we’re dead as soon as we break the line. Do it. Do what she wants. I’ll get the card.”

“Okay, okay,” Butch pushes the hair out of Tate’s forehead, kissing him there and resisting the urge to just...fuck.

Tate bites at Butch’s lip one last time before slipping out of the stall.

\--

A strange weight on Butch’s mattress wakes him from an uneasy sleep. He feels the body above him shift, a leg on either side of his hips, hands planted to the sides of his head. In his half-conscious state, Butch wraps his arms around the form, thinking it must be Tate. But the person on top of him is too wiry-thin.

“Please,” Yalda whispers in the dark. “Oh, please. Just…”

“Yalda?” He’s still too drowsy to quite register that he should be pushing Yalda away. And through no fault of his own, his cock is hard. Probably Tate’s fault. Somehow. 

“Please, Butch. I know you don’t...I just want…”

Blinking several times, Butch finally realizes that a mostly-naked Yalda has climbed into his bed, straddled him, and is pleading for something. Fuck. Isn’t there literally fucking anyone else in the compound that could stick his cock in the poor guy? How has it even gotten to this point? He can’t remember the Brotherhood in the Capital particularly having hang-ups about him and Tate, even if they weren’t all that obvious about it back then. But in the months Tate spent in the coma, they must have known why Butch kept sniffing around. 

Butch goes to push Yalda off of him, deposit him on the floor and tell him to get the fuck back into his own bed, but the texture of skin under his right hand makes him stop. 

Fuck.

“Yalda?”

“Butch…”

“Your skin, Yalda.” Butch thinks it over. He’s never actually seen Yalda without his shirt on. He sleeps in a white tee, wears it when he goes to shower. They must have changed in front of each other, dozens of times, but they’re always looking away, for the sake of privacy. Or maybe he just always has had the shirt on. Fuck. Fuck.

Butch flips his Pipboy light on and Yalda recoils, but doesn’t get off of Butch’s lap. 

“Turn around.”

“Butch...I,” he hesitates. “I just wanted...before anyone knew.”

“Turn around.”

Twisting in place, Yalda shows Butch his side, part of his back. The green Pipboy light is just enough for Butch to make out the texture of Yalda’s skin, flaking, rough, starting to harden. And when he’s so soft everywhere else. 

Covering his face with his hands, Yalda won’t look at him anymore, but he still argues through his fingers. “I was hoping...but now it’s too late.”

“You’re turning into a ghoul.” Butch’s mouth has gone dry.

“Yes. I...was exposed...a lot, before the Brotherhood found me. I think that’s why.”

“Yalda,” Butch doesn’t know how to explain. Does Yalda already know? He must know what the Brotherhood thinks of ghouls, mutants, anyone who doesn’t meet their criteria of purity. Butch still thinks half the reason they wanted Tate and him so bad was because they were vault kids. The Brotherhood had the same views in the Mojave that they had back in the Capital, far as he could tell. But how does Butch explain how much he knows? “They’ll kill you, Yalda. When the doctor finds out, she’ll kill you.”

“I know,” Yalda dips his head, “I know.”

“Come with us,” fuck, the guy can be fucking annoying. And has trouble understanding what “no” means apparently. And he smiles too much and might be a fucking idiot other than that pretty brilliant mechanical brain. But he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to die when he could have literally years left of being mostly human, and then fuck knows how long of being a perfectly happy ghoul. All of the people at the Natural History Museum, and Gob! And Beatrix and just...so many people. Even Bright and his wacked out cult. They all had full lives as ghouls. No harm, no foul. But staying here? Yalda will die.

“What?”

“Come with us.”

“What do you mean?”

Butch’s chest seizes. He has to explain. “Wei isn’t Wei. He’s Tate. He’s my husband. He got his dumb ass kidnapped so that he could bust me out of here. Him and me and another Scribe are leaving. We’re going to get the fuck out of here. And you are going to come with us.”

“Wei...is your husband.”

“Tate, he’s Tate.”

Confusion is apparent on Yalda’s face for a moment, “You married a fourteen year old?”

Fucking Tate and his fucking, “Nah, I married a goddamn lying piece of shit is what I did. He’s only like, six months younger than me. But this is besides the point. Come with us.”

“Butch...but...this is so much better than out there.”

“Fuck, no it’s not? Sure uh…” Butch tries to come up with a convincing argument. “Listen, I’m sure it was fucking rough when you were a kid, yeah? I saw the report, from when they picked you up, all scratched up and starving and whatever. I can’t say I know what that’s like. But I’ve been living ‘out there’ for ten fucking years. And I can tell you, right now, there is a lot of shit that tries to kill you.”

Even in the dark, Butch can see Yalda’s eyes go wide at the prospect. Shit, for all he knows, Yalda hasn’t left the compound in almost twenty years.

“But, trust me, most of the time? The shit trying to kill you? It fails.”

Butch should be dead, dozens of times over. Tate maybe even more. But they’re still here. They’re alive and they want to keep on living. There’s no fucking reason that Yalda has gotta act like dying is the better prospect. Survival is the start of everything else beautiful in this world. 

“But I’ll be…”

“A ghoul, yeah. So what? There are lots of ghouls out there. A lot of happy ghouls with like, fuck, families who love them, and partners and jobs and all sorts of shit. Whatever the Brotherhood has been telling you about them? It probably ain’t true. Sure some people are prejudiced, but they’re assholes anyway.”

“I’ll lose my mind, Butch.”

“Nah,” Butch tries to sit up. On top of him, Yalda shifts so he can, but he doesn’t totally get off either. His hands dig into Butch’s biceps. “Well, yeah maybe eventually. But you could have literally hundreds of years before that happens. I knew ghouls who were born before the War and they’re still great. Like, smart and everything.”

“Butch...you’ll never make it out. I don’t know why you think-”

“We will,” Butch cuts him off, “You and me and Tate.” He doesn’t mention Jackson. “We are getting out of here. If you want to fucking kill yourself after we’re on the other side of those turrets, fine. Fine. But I’m not leaving you here to die.”

Yalda shakes his head, “But you don’t care about me.”

“Fucking, fuck. Listen. Just because I don’t want to cheat on my fucking husband, doesn’t mean I hate you.”

“I can’t do this,” his hands are shaking. “I can’t.”

“You can. You will. Just,” fuck, Butch wishes Tate were here, he’d say the right thing even if it wasn’t strictly true. “Trust me, okay?”

Yalda doesn’t say yes. But he doesn’t say no either. Butch figures, when the time comes, so will Yalda.

\--

Tate does something all day, while Butch and Yalda are at work. But Butch doesn’t know what it is. His ‘sponsor’ isn’t around, and he has a card that at least opens some doors, and he can’t possibly be like, training or anything. There are rarely other Knights just, hanging around. More than for a few days, anyway. The compound seems to be mostly a research facility, with the Knights always out on deployment. 

At dinner time, Tate slips Butch a blank card and a note. Well, so at least during the day, Tate gets into shit he shouldn’t be into. The note is nothing more than a scribbled heart. So fucking sentimental. Fuck. They’re fucking idiots. He tucks the scrap of paper into the pocket of his robes.

\--

DE27122257 > JA04062265: got card  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: serial?  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: 568BC9012K1212

Butch thinks over what else he’s gonna tell her. How much she needs to know. Maybe everything.

JA04062265 > DE27122257: done  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: WE got me the key  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: he and YA are coming  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: and why didnt you fuxing tell me  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: bc i didn’t know if i could trust u?  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: whatever  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: just get me out  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: im sending YA a mail now  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: so u can come here for a sec  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: ok  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: is there a prosthetic arm in ur workshop  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: its a left  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: came in w the pipboy ye  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: yes its WEs  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: the pipboy too  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: kk

The window closes. Butch still has no fucking idea how she does that. 

Not twenty minutes later, Yalda shows up at Butch’s cubicle, looking somewhat confused, but saying they’ve been called to the workshop. Butch tries to look surprised, closing out of the remaining windows he has open.

“You know,” Yalda offers by way of conversation, “They’ve built a couple of things I’ve designed. Some of the simpler ones. I prototype more in my office, but they don’t always get built.”

The air outside is crisp, but still somewhat warmer than the previous week. Butch doesn’t really know what January in Canada is gonna be like, but he can’t imagine it will be fun or anything. Canada is supposed to be cold. It’s been cold for awhile. 

Maybe there is snow in Canada. Radflakes or something. Like the infrequent rain back in the Capital where it was always too hot and too muggy. Even in the winter, it didn’t get that cold. And the Mojave was hot year round. Monterey got cool. With the wind off the water and all. But not like here. Here, it freezes.

Yalda knocks at the door and Scribe Jackson answers. This is the first time Butch has realized it; this is Scribe Jackson. Daughter of Head Scribe Jackson. She’s better with computers than he is. She’s never given him the time of day before.

Even now she doesn’t look particularly friendly, opening up the door so they can be let in. Yalda looks like, well, Yalda. Smiling but in an empty sort of way. Jackson clicks the door closed behind them.

There are four other people in the workshop, all absorbed in their own tasks. Welding, sanding, two looking over one set diagrams. No one gives Yalda and Butch a second look.

“Great, I could use your help with something, Scribe DeLoria,” she motions for them to follow.

They end up standing over the table with Tate’s Pipboy. His arm is there too, just laying on the desk. Butch is so happy at the sight of it, he just might cry. Now he’s managed to do everything Tate needed. And he’s sure Tate has done a bunch of shit too. They’re going to get out of here. 

“I was informed that you are an expert on Pipboy programming?”

Butch nods, not daring to correct any assumption she’s about to make. He just figures there’s some sort of reason for all this.

“If you could show me how to reach the core vitals functions, that would be killer.” She takes Tate’s Pipboy off the stand, handing it to Butch.

Yalda keeps his place at the end of the workbench, running his fingers over the glossy surface of the table. It’s not that he is needed, just that he has to escort Butch. No one else at the compound seems to be under such close scrutiny. It’s fucking unnerving. 

Butch is fairly sure that Jackson doesn’t need to know shit about the Pipboy, but he also doesn’t know what she needs, up until the point she outright says it, her voice a little quieter now, but still casual.

“Key?”

Taking it from his pocket, he passes it over to her. It disappears in her equally bulky robes. Butch goes back to playing with the Pipboy dials. They might as well try to look like they’re doing something productive.

“When?”

“Dunno,” he doesn’t take his eyes off the Pipboy, trying to look like it’s really important. “Gotta ask.”

“Sure, sure. But I don’t have all day,” she drums her long nails against the table. The vibration shocks Yalda, who pulls his hands away. “Sooner is better.”

“I think we can all agree on that.”

“Are you sure he’s okay,” she nods in Yalda’s direction. “He’s always been twitchy. I mean, I only transferred here a few months ago? But he’s-”

Butch stops her. “He’ll be fine. He’s coming.”

Jackson scratches the side of her head, just below where one puff is tied off. “You know why you got him, right?”

Butch grits his teeth, idly flipping through screens on Tate’s Pipboy. He’s had his suspicions about this.

“They don’t want you to bolt, right? Everyone knows your holos. You’re valuable.”

“He’s supposed to seduce me. To make me stay.”

If Jackson is surprised by his straightforwardness, she doesn’t show it. “He doesn’t know it. Not ‘seduce’ so much. But yeah, make you happy. I was the other candidate to be your sponsor, since I do the computers here. But Gibson said, you know. That your husband was cute. So they gave you the cute one.”

Butch can’t help but laugh, “Try calling Tate that to his face. See how well that goes.”

“I bet I could take him,” she jokes. “If he’s anything like Yalda.”

At the sound of his name, Yalda tilts his head, turning his attention to Butch and Jackson. Jackson merely waves him off. He looks away again. Butch has the feeling that as the Head Scribe’s daughter, Jackson has some sort of status, even if she is a couple years younger than Yalda. She looks barely out of her teens, though she’s as tall as Butch and Yalda. She’s wide hipped, but small busted, at least as far as one can tell with her robes on. They could be hiding anything. 

“Nah, shorter,” Butch smiles, “way stronger. Not,” he stops himself from saying something potentially insulting about Yalda. “He’s survived. A lot.”

“Well, we still gotta get out of here.”

“We will,” Butch likes the confidence in his own voice.

\--

Tate joins them for dinner as usual, sitting next to Yalda and across from Butch. Half-way through their meal, which Butch only half-eats, he comes right out and says it. “You should come back to our room, tonight.”

Blanching slightly, Tate looks into his hands, “Is that okay with you, Scribe Yalda?”

“He knows,” Butch says, biting into a zucchini. It’s terrible. “Everything. He’s coming with us.” He spits it back out onto the plate. He can’t stomach it even a little bit.

Tate’s face shifts, looking tighter in his jaw. But his eyes soften a bit. Instead of the upright posture he normally adopts with Yalda present, he sinks in his seat, legs sliding closer to Butch’s. “Yeah, let’s go. Worst case scenario, everyone just thinks we’re in some kinky-threeway shit.”

Butch rolls his eyes, taking his tray up to deposit in the plastic bin for the kitchen staff. Right behind him is Tate, and a little further back, Yalda. When they make it to the door, Butch doesn't hide the fact he has a keycard now, or that it works, getting them inside. 

Once the door is closed, Tate doesn't wait, coming up a bit on the balls of his feet to kiss Butch, open mouthed and wet in front of Yalda. Butch wraps his arms around Tate’s hips, because while this isn't the best time for them to be sucking face, it might be the only time they have anymore.

Butch knows well enough, that every time they have each other, there is a chance it will be the last. They've kissed each other goodbye a lot of times. What's once more?

When they break apart, Yalda is still watching them, silent against the opposite wall. His hands are tucked into the sleeves of his robes, his mouth slightly open. Tate smiles at him, but it's a touch cruel.

“I don't mind if you want to get out of here too. More the merrier,” Tate keeps hold of Butch’s hand while they talk. “So it's four now, right?”

“Yeah, Butch confirms. So what's the plan?”

“What about my arm and Pipboy?”

“Jackson has them both, she showed us today.”

“Cool, okay so, right. Here's what I know. Did Jackson tell you about her mom?”

“Only that she's Head Scribe?”

“Oh this is a trip, we should sit down.”

Sitting down turns into Tate half laying across Butch’s lap while Yalda keeps ramrod straight in his bed. Butch can't help but play with Tate’s hair as he talks. “Head Scribe Jackson is planning a coup. She wants to install Caroline, her daughter, as Elder.”

“What?” Jackson hasn't said any of this to him.

“So Jackson doesn't have a claim right? She's just a Scribe, Head Scribe, but sure. Normally, Elders come from the Sentinels, which is the situation with Elder Kelly, right? But turns out Caroline does have a claim, because her pop, and his mom, and her mom? They’re like, fucking legends or some shit. And you know how the Brotherhood loves blood.”

“I didn’t see anything about this in the files,” Butch looks over at Yalda, “Did you know about this?”

Still quiet, Yalda just shakes his head. Yeah, well, Butch has been pretty sure Yalda is out of the loop on a bunch of things. He’s not some sort of manipulative mastermind. He’s a kid that ended up in over his head, because someone thought Butch might like a passive toy to keep him warm through the fucking winter. 

“How did you find this out, Tate?” He doesn’t even really register that he keeps playing with the zipper at the front of Tate’s uniform, inching it further and further down his chest. Even though they’ve managed to fuck since Tate’s arrival at the compound, they haven’t really had time just to like, fucking mess with each other. Like they always have. They haven’t fought or teased or just riled each other up.

“People skills is all, listening to the Sentinels, playing dumb, you know, the usual.” Tate smiles, his head in Butch’s lap. 

Frowning, Butch asks, “Do you think Jackson is playing us then? Ammunition to make herself Elder? She caught the fucking traitors?”

“Nah,” Tate responds, “You and me, Butch, we know about, you know, parent stuff. Expectation? I’d believe it makes her more desperate to get out.”

Yeah, okay, Tate is probably right on this account. Jackson is pretty fucking young to have something like being Elder on her shoulders. Plus, she’s got access to years and years of records, just like Butch does. She can’t think the compound can sustain itself. 

“So why are you bailing?” Tate lifts his head a little to look at Yalda.

“I don’t want to…”

Butch interrupts. “He’s ghoulifying.”

“Rough,” Tate admits. “Brotherhood hates ghouls.”

“But you and Butch, you don’t?”

“Not anymore than I hate other people, nah. Had plenty of friends. Enemies too. Kinda weird at first since you know. Vault kids,” Tate says it like that’s the obvious explanation, probably is. “Wasn’t expecting it. But nah, they’re not any different.”

Yalda clenches his jaw, “I guess I don’t have a choice. It’s go or die.”

“And you’re thinking about dying?” Tate says flippantly. 

Yalda’s hands skitter, “Better than being alone.”

“You won’t be alone,” Tate says. “World doesn’t work like that. Not anymore.” Tate closes his hand over Butch’s, squeezing at his fingers. 

Tate explains in broad strokes his plan, though Butch knows well enough he’s changing things as he goes, accommodating for the fact there are four of them now, instead of two. “They’ll care about you leaving, Butch. And Jackson. And my arm maybe? But not me. Not Yalda. Probably not.” Tate shifts a bit against Butch. Fuck, he wishes they were alone. But maybe then, Tate wouldn’t actually get through the process of explaining. They’d get too desperate again. “Your treatment is really unusual. But now that Yalda is on board, it might be easier. We’ll split into two groups...once the turrets are killed, I think Jackson and I should run first. We’d fare better if attacked directly. While they’re distracted with us, you and Yalda need to run in the opposite direction. As long as I’ve got my Pipboy, we can coordinate later how to meet up. But this is good, Yalda and Jackson coming, this is good.”

“Are people going to get hurt?” Yalda asks. 

“Maybe, depends on if they try to hurt us first. What kind of weapon do you use, Yalda?” 

Butch is pretty sure he already knows the answer to this one.

“I don’t have combat training, um...I’m alright with explosives though. But I don’t want to kill anyone!”

“Awesome.”

Butch can’t tell if Tate is being sarcastic or not.

When Tate gets up to leave, Butch doesn’t even bother making an excuse, just following him out. They’re careful enough in the hallway, though they don’t run past anyone. Butch wonders if it’s safe enough to spend the night, or if it will be better for him to slip back to his room. He doesn’t know when Trench is supposed to be back, or how fast rumors travel or anything. Tate will be the better judge of that. He’s only been at the compound for a week or so, and already he seems to know the ins and outs of the politics of the place. 

Tate keys them into the room. Once inside, he’s oddly subdued, maybe the ragged edge of their separation is starting to mend, the wound fusing shut. 

But Tate still kisses him, winding his arms around Butch’s shoulders and splaying his fingers in the back of his hair. He keeps his mouth open, waiting for Butch to lick into it, to wrap his arms too, around Tate’s hips and hold their bodies close. 

“I’m not gonna want to leave you tonight,” Butch admits. “Don’t.think I’ll be able to.”

Already pulling at Butch’s robes, Tate replies, “Don’t. People are gonna talk, but we’ll be out of here before there are any consequences. Day after tomorrow. Tell Jackson that.”

“Okay,” Butch finally gets to peel down Tate’s zipper. Fuck, by now, the impression of the tab has gotta be pressed into his fingertips. He flattens his palms against Tate’s chest, soaking up the warmth there. 

“Just like,” Tate cranes his neck, exposing his throat, “fuck me already.”

They haven’t done it this frequently in awhile, but whatever. Butch ain’t gonna say no, because he never really does when Tate is involved. But he’s got plans other than fucking when he gets Tate naked and hot and spread across the bed. He throws Tate’s borrowed arm across the room, banging it against the wall. Okay, not smooth, but whatever. Grabbing the pillow out from under Tate’s head, Butch shoves it under Tate’s hips instead, propping him up off the mattress. This way, Butch doesn’t have to curl up so small to take Tate’s cock down his throat. 

Tate’s hand fists at his side, knuckles turning white. He hisses, groaning out Butch’s name. His hips roll up to meet Butch’s mouth, chasing sensation. Butch keeps him down, heavy on his tongue as he sucks, one hand tugging at Tate’s balls, feeling how they tighten, the deeper Butch goes. 

“Fuck, oh, fuck,” no one could ever accuse Tate of being quiet. Even if there was a fucking deathclaw at the door, he’d be like, moaning and shit. Butch has to admit though, that it is fucking hot as hell. And a fucking ego trip that he can still make Tate whine like that. Despite, nah, because of how many times they have done this.

Keeping Tate in his mouth, Butch reaches one hand into his boxers to stroke against himself. His cock is hot in his hand, already dribbling precum and needing attention. But he tries to keep focused on bringing Tate off first. He makes his mouth wet and his lips tight, sliding along Tate’s length. 

Butch takes Tate as far as he can, his nose bumping up against Tate’s pubic hair. Tate’s all strangled, incoherent, as he comes, forgetting himself and grabbing at the front of Butch’s hair, pulling hard. He’s bitter and warm and fucking perfect. Vibrating all over while Butch pulls back.

Butch pumps himself in his hand. But Tate is already sitting up, trying to help, though he still looks cloudy-eyed and tired. He kisses Butch, probing his tongue past his lips, running his hand down Butch’s chest. “You’re too good to me,” Tate tilts his head, “you always have been.”

If Tate wants to talk, Butch is gonna let him.

“Fuck, you know, I was gonna die in that vault, Butch, if I couldn’t have you. And here we are. You’re mine, I’m yours.” He puts his fingers to Butch’s lips. Darting his tongue against them, Butch makes Tate inhale again. “No one fucks with us again. Not now, not ever.” Tate’s love confessions are never quite normal. But Butch doesn’t mind.

He comes in his hand, with Tate whispering some nonsense about Butch’s cock being so pretty, so big. Real head trip stuff which is probably only half-true, but Butch doesn’t call Tate out on it because in the moment, it’s fucking hot as hell. 

Tate grabs a towel to wipe Butch down. He can’t use the showers up here in the officers’ quarters. Doesn’t want to leave anyway, wrapping Tate in his arms and taking them both to the mattress. Tate’s hair flares out around his head. 

“I’ll get you a gun tomorrow. Something small for Yalda too,” from the drowsiness in Tate’s voice, Butch can tell he’s only minutes away from nodding off. “Tell Jackson to expect me at 9am day after tomorrow.”

“Dunno why you want to do it in broad daylight.”

“Because it’s the reckless way to do it,” Tate’s only half-joking.


	6. Always Wrong about the Things that are Most Obvious

“Scribe DeLoria!” Scribe Mirabella appears over the edge of Butch’s cubicle, a holo in her hand. “Good to see you well,” she always sounds sincere. Butch assumes she is. They’re not evil, the members of the Brotherhood. But they’re narrow minded, blinded by their ideology, unwilling to listen to the other side. Him and Tate? Could have been just like these fuckers. Maybe they are just like them. Only they were raised in a different hole. “This arrived for you, in yesterday’s supply Bird.” She passes him the tape.

Butch turns it over in his hands. Who the fuck would send him a holo? Who the fuck would know he’s here? Other than Tate. Unless this is part of the plan that Tate failed to mention to him. But nah, that would require longer term planning than what Tate usually manages. They’ve gotten better over time at thinking things through, but not that good.

“Did you listen to it?” Butch assumes all communications would be monitored. 

“Not personally, but it may have been screened when it arrived? I’m not sure.” She shifts the weight of the rest of the books in her arms. “In any case, do you need a player? I can have Yalda bring one.”

“No, no thank you, I can play it in my Pipboy.”

“Alright. Check in again with you soon.” She heads through the cubicle pool and back down the hall to her office.

Butch figures he might as well listen to the tape. Either it’s part of the plan or it’s not. The tape clicks into place in his Pipboy and starts to play. He keeps the volume low so others can’t hear.

“Hello?”

He recognizes the voice immediately, though he hasn’t heard it in ten years. Heard it a lot for the first twenty though. Soft, but sometimes and sharp and teasing. Almost silent when they lay together on the mattress dragged into the vault clinic during the rebellion, touching each other and trying to forget how they had gotten to that point. How they had become so fragile, but the will to survive hadn’t left them. None of them deserved what happened in 101. Least of all her.

Amata.

“Butch, hi. I don’t know if this will actually reach you?” In the background of the holo is a low, unceasing hum. “But they told me you were on the West Coast. That you had joined the Brotherhood. That you’re a Scribe now. I just...I’m glad to hear you’re safe.

“They didn’t say anything about Tate...I hope he’s safe too. Even if you aren’t together. I just always thought...you would be.”

Oh fuck, he wishes he could reach through the tape and tell her. Tell her he didn’t fuck up with Tate. And Tate didn’t fuck up with him. That Tate’s safe too, because Tate’s the one she always loved, in a sort of unpolluted way Butch could never quite understand. Because while he liked Amata, he could never quite love her. Not like she deserved. 

And ten years ago, he fucking thought leaving her in the vault was best. And Tate did too and just, fuck, fuck, he can’t think straight. So much of it he’s held back, held down, because what? Telling someone doesn’t fix what happened. He and Tate both know. Fucking crying about it doesn’t help. Tate says it, sometimes, how much he misses her. Wants her to be safe. Maybe he second guesses leaving her behind, but they can’t change it.

“We’re on the Prydwen, ah, above the Commonwealth? You know, up by Boston? Helping a friend. Well...hopefully. They’d like for us to stay on. But I’m not so sure. We didn’t leave the vault just to hide away again.

“If...if Tate is okay, or you know how to get ahold of him? Tell him I forgive him. Please. And I forgive you too.”

Butch can’t imagine how she possibly could. There are too many sins for which they should both atone. There’s a long pause on the tape. Butch lets it run, in hope there’s something else.

It does come, right at the end of the reel. As if an afterthought. 

“...She looks just like you.”

Butch covers his mouth with his hand, biting into his palm to keep quiet.

\--

Jackson messages Butch just after lunch, her window flying open on his terminal screen. 

He’d spent most of the morning writing a program that will scroll “FUCK YOU” across the display with fireworks exploding in the background, before erasing every other little project he wasted his time on. Anything remotely good, that he might use in the future, is backed up to his Pipboy.

JA04062265 > DE27122257: yo  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: be ready 9am tomorrow  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: have a weapon ready  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: im not shooting anyone  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: got it  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: WE will need his arm and pipboy  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: and its to defend urself  
DE27122257 > JA04062265: if uv forgotten were running into the fucking woods  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: good point  
JA04062265 > DE27122257: see ya

\--

After dinner, Tate tells Butch and Yalda to follow him back up to Trench’s quarters. It feels weird, to climb the stairs to the officers’ barracks while people are still up and about, sliding past them in the narrow halls and minding their own business. Then again, Butch has been so restricted for months, he has no idea how the rest of the compound operates. 

Once through the door, Tate half jokes that the rumors about the three of them have already started. Yalda blushes, looking away. But it doesn’t matter, they’ll all be out of here tomorrow.

Tate kicks open his footlocker, bending over to retrieve a laser pistol and a 10mm. “Good thing you guys got those robes. Great for hiding shit.”

Butch lifts up his robes to stick his new laser into the waistband of his slacks. Yalda just turns the little pistol over and over in his hands.

“Best I could do for you, buddy.” Tate shrugs his shoulders, “I ain’t great with them either.”

“What do you have for yourself?” Butch asks.

“Powerfist and another 10mm. But you know I ain’t good with it, love.”

“I told Jackson to have her weapon too.”

Tate nods, “Okay, well, we should all, sleep I guess. Or at least try.”

“Should I go back to my room?” Butch asks, but he’s already got his arms around Tate’s waist.

“Yeah, probably, but,” Tate kisses him, biting at his bottom lip, because he can’t do anything soft. Ever. “There. That’s better.”

“Won’t be better until we’re out.”

“Yeah,” Tate smiles. “Then you get to fuck me until I can’t stand up.”

“Fucking hell, Tate.”

“Never will have enough of you.” Tate cocks one hip forward. “But I gotta go start a domestic incident. Make sure a couple of Knights supposed to be on guard in the morning don’t get a good night’s rest. Might give us an advantage. Might not. Either way, it’ll be fun.”

Butch groans.

\--

Butch sits in front of his terminal, Yalda seated at his side. They pretend that Butch is demonstrating something to him. Really, he’s just clicking around different screens. Waiting for a message from Jackson, or one from Tate sent to his Pipboy.

Yalda keeps his hands curled in his lap, fingers laced together. The shape of the 10mm is barely visible under his robes, a slight protrusion at Yalda’s otherwise flat stomach. He’s nervous, and twitchy, of course he is. Yalda doesn’t really want this. He wants to live out his days among the Brotherhood, who took him in, fed and sheltered him when he was a child, alone in this world. But those same brothers and sisters will throw him away like garbage, once they know about the patches along his back. He’ll be less than human to them.

Taking him away from here is the right thing to do. They’ll find him a new family. Those who won’t hurt him, or lie to him, or manipulate him.

Butch knows, sort of, that he’s hurt Yalda, lied to him, manipulated.

But, he’ll find someone better. Or Yalda will find that person himself. But it can’t be here. Not anymore.

It’s 9:11 when the message arrives at Butch’s Pipboy. 

130758 > 271257: Go East now

Butch only has time for one reply.

271257 > 130758: love you

Grabbing Yalda’s wrist, he yanks the Scribe out of his chair. Together, they walk towards the door. As long as Yalda is at his side, Butch assumes no one will stop them from exiting the building. 

Once outside, he can hear the yelling, back and forth between two Scribes rushing from the workshop, and three Knights who have run from the barracks. 

“She shut off the turrets!”

“But why?”

“She ran off with one of the Knights! And a bunch of tech!”

Butch tries to shut out their yelling, because it’s only making him want to run to Tate. But Tate told them to go East. So when the Knights start running West, he has to turn in the opposite direction. 

Still holding onto Yalda’s wrist, he marches them both towards the edge of the parking lot. He wants to run, but that will only draw more attention. Behind him, he can hear gunfire. Fuck, fuck, don’t turn around, fuck. There are lasers, standard ammunition fire too. 

When he hears Tate yell “FUCK,” distantly, his resolve nearly breaks. But the Knights were in power armor, there’s nothing he can fucking do with his little pistol. And Tate told him to go East.

“Hey!” Someone is shouting at them. “Where are you going?”

Butch’s grip around Yalda’s wrist tightens. He can feel Yalda’s step slowing down. His own heart races, pounding in his chest. He wants to run. But that’s not going to work. They’ll be shot in the back. Might get shot in the back anyway. Just keep walking, Butch. Just go.

There are footsteps behind them, coming closer and closer. But not the whir of power armor. Must be the Scribes from the workshop. They’re so close to the turrets now, and they haven’t fired, so that much of the plan must have worked. 

“Stop!” One of the Scribes finally yells. Butch has to let go of Yalda’s hand to reach for his pistol. Drawing it, he turns in place, holding the gun in both hands, hoping he gets his aim right.

But Yalda panics, almost as soon as their contact breaks. He runs. Shit.

The Scribe fires, hitting Yalda between the shoulder blades. Butch fires next. There’s no fucking cover, at least not until they get to the tree line. Then the huge, dead trunks can hide them. He fires at the hand of the Scribe who shot Yalda. She’s so shocked that she actually shot someone that she doesn’t respond to Butch firing back.

The second Scribe screams. And fuck, this is fucking going to hell. “Just take her and leave!” Butch yells. The Scribe on the ground wails, trying to put pressure on her bleeding hand. The laser shredded it, seeping blood into her robes. “Just get her help! Let us go!”

It doesn’t look like the other Scribe is armed, but they’re wide-eyed, not knowing what to do. Butch doesn’t fucking have time for this. He can still hear gunfire, but it’s more distant now. And the sound of blades cutting through air. A Vertibird. Fuck, fuck. This is all going to hell.

He forgets about the Scribes, rushing towards Yalda. He’s laying face-first in the dirt, his hands at his side. The laser scorched through his robes, exposing much of his back, where he’s now badly burned, the round penetrating through his flesh and spreading, all the way to the muscle. Could be worse. Yeah, sure, just keep telling yourself that.

Butch has a stimpack in his pocket that he managed to swipe from the first aid kit in the bathroom. Uncapping it, he jams the needle between Yalda’s shoulderblades. It might not do much for the pain, but it will keep the skin from pulling apart more. The wound will need time to knit, time they don’t have. He has to move Yalda. Now.

If the Brotherhood are in a Bird, they’re going to be fucked if they don’t get into cover. He hoists up Yalda, throwing one limp arm around his shoulders to try and get Yalda to at least support some of his weight. But Yalda is shaky on his feet. He’s silent, but his eyes keep watering, tears streaming down his face. Butch takes a step and Yalda’s feet slide out from under him. 

Giving up on Yalda being any help at all, Butch grabs his legs too, hoisting him up. The shift in position puts Butch’s arm around Yalda’s burn, and finally, finally he makes a pained noise as Butch’s robes scrape against his open wound.

“Yeah fucking sucks, being dead sucks more.”

Yalda isn’t heavy, at least, so Butch doesn’t have too much trouble carrying him and jogging away from the lot. Using his pistol, he fires through the chain holding the East gate together before kicking it open. He makes it to the tree line, trying to find somewhere to hide. His instincts tell him to run deeper into the forest, where the branches are thicker, harder to be seen from the air. But even if Yalda isn’t heavy, it’s not like Butch can carry him forever. 

He carries Yalda as far as he can, until his arms burn, his back aches. Branches snag in his robes and his feet feel cold and wet, though as far as he can tell, the ground is dry. It’s still bright, early morning. Fucking Tate and his fucking half-assed plans. But he did get them out of the compound. And, as far as Butch can tell, Tate’s got the higher priority escapee in Jackson. 

There’s a thick, fallen tree trunk, and while it’s not much in terms of shelter, it’ll block the view of them from the air. At least mostly. It’s about as good a chance as they’ve got. His fucking arms feel like they’re gonna fall off. But he can’t convince Yalda that his life is worth saving and then fucking abandon him in the wilderness. 

Gingerly, he sets Yalda to the ground. It would be better if he could prop him up but, but Yalda’s back is too still shredded. Having to be held bridal-style for the last half-mile didn’t help. Yalda braces his hands against the forest floor to keep from toppling over. At least he’s more responsive now. The stim must have helped a little.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” Butch crouches down in front of Yalda, waving his hand in front of the Scribe’s face. “Okay, you’re gonna be okay, but we gotta hide under this tree, yeah?”

Yalda’s mouth drops open, “Okay.”

“Cool, cool, cool.” Butch stands up. Testing the stability of the trunk, he pushes down on it with all his weight, his feet coming up off the ground. When he’s sure it won’t collapse on top of him, he slides under the tree, his back to the short section of trunk still upright in the ground. “Come here, Yalda. We gotta fit.”

Clearly in pain, Yalda crawls towards Butch. It’s not far, but there’s no way to get him in here properly unless Butch is inside first. He wants to keep the weight off of Yalda’s back so the wound can stitch. What they really need is another stim, but Butch ain’t got one.

“Here, lie with your chest against mine,” Butch instructs.

Yalda curls into his arms, resting his head against Butch’s shoulder, his soft hair brushing against Butch’s neck. Butch keeps his legs to the outside of Yalda’s, making sure he’s comfortable. If they have to stay here for long, he hopes Yalda can at least get some sleep, to help the healing along. 

He has to reach around Yalda’s body to get at his Pipboy, flipping through screens until he can send a text off. It’s awkward, trying not to aggravate Yalda’s wounds.

271257 > 130758: are you okay?

All Butch can do is wait. He doesn’t want to mark his position yet, in case...well...the worst happened.

After twenty minutes, Yalda’s breathing against him evens out into a quiet sleep. Butch tries to listen for footsteps, Vertibirds, the hum of power armor. But all he hears is the wind. There are other predators too, that might be attracted to the scent of blood. But he’s got nothing to bandage Yalda with.

While Yalda sleeps, Butch is stuck in nervous wakefulness. Too dangerous to rest, anyway. And he’s not tired. He wants Tate to message him back. Hopefully, when Yalda wakes, he’ll be ready to move. Because they’ll have to move, whether or not he hears from Tate. Spending the night out in the open like this isn’t an option. 

Around three in the afternoon, Butch’s stomach rumbles. In response, Yalda shifts in his arms. He hasn’t looked at his Pipboy in a long time. Not since noon. Before that, he was checking his messaging folder every thirty seconds, making his fingers ache.

“Butch?” Yalda’s eyes are cloudy from sleep. He smacks his mouth a few times before speaking again. “Where are we?”

“Forest, I don’t know. I mean, I have a map,” he laughs, but not because it’s funny. “I can tell you are exact coordinates, but that won’t help. Um,” he looks at his map, for anything they might be able to use. “There might be a cabin, another half mile into the woods. Looks small, but it might be worth a shot.”

They don’t need food. Not this first day. But they’ll need water, and better shelter. Butch is fairly sure by now, he and Yalda aren’t the Brotherhood’s priority. The risk now come from other factors. Dehydration, exposure, infection, predators. 

“Do you think you can walk?”

Yalda turns his head in the crook of Butch’s neck, his breath hot against Butch’s skin. “Yeah. I think so.” Crawling out of their makeshift shelter first, Yalda manages to push himself up onto two legs. With one hand on the tree trunk, he can keep his balance well enough. Good, than at least he can walk with Butch’s support.

They take their time moving deeper into the forest, careful to avoid branches and uneven ground. The last thing they fucking need to do is lose their footing. Yalda can clear the first quarter-mile without help, but starts fading fast on the second, needing Butch’s shoulder every few steps. 

Reaching the shack that was on Butch’s map, he’s relieved it at least has a roof. When it proves to have all four walls too, Butch finally lets his shoulders relax. But that doesn’t yet mean it’s safe. 

“Wait here,” he tells Yalda, pulling out his laser pistol. He doesn’t need Yalda getting in the way, in case he has to try and kill something inside.

Radroaches skitter across the floor, most of them running away when Butch disturbs them by opening the door. One brave roach runs towards him, and Butch almost turns to run too, but realizes how silly he’s being. He crushes it under his boots.

There’s a fireplace against one wall, most of the bricks crumbling into a heap. But there’s an old iron poker just to the side. Butch grabs it before going after the other roaches. Better to conserve the E-Cells if he can. But fuck, fuck he hates the fuckers. They’re too big to make it out of the cabin through the hole in the wall, and he smashes them up with the poker until they’re just a pile of guts in the corner.

Throwing open the door to the bathroom, Butch makes sure there aren’t any more.

“Okay,” he calls out the door to Yalda, ”clear now.”

The cabin is just two rooms, the bathroom and then a big main one, with a cot in one corner, a couch in front of the fireplace, and a breakfast bar that partially divides a kitchen area from the rest of the space. Butch doesn’t wait for Yalda, throwing open the fridge, empty except for a couple of old milk jugs and a bottle of dirty water. It will have to do. He tries the cupboards next, finding a box of abraxo, and thank fuck, a can of beans and a box of Dandy Boys. That’ll be alright. They’re not planning on staying here for long. They’ll have to keep moving.

Yalda sits on the edge of the cot while Butch works on opening the can of beans. There’s no way to warm them, but he does find two forks in the drawer. Tucking the Dandy Boys under his arm, he takes the food over to the bed, holding out the can and one fork for Yalda to take. “You need to keep your energy up. Eat half of it.”

They finish up the can of beans and the apple snacks between them. Butch gives most of the water to Yalda. Yalda falls back asleep on the cot. Butch rummages through an old chest in the central room, finding a blanket and a pack of cigarettes. He throws the blanket over Yalda, leaving the wound exposed, before taking the pack outside.

He sits on the front steps of the cabin, trying not to think of grotesque scenes of his dead husband. 

The sun sets. Butch’s Pipboy lights up. And his heart nearly stops right there.

130758 > 271257: Where are you?  
271257 > 130758: ill drop a map marker  
271257 > 130758: fuck fuck im so glad youre safe  
130758 > 271257: I’ll never leave you Butch  
130758 > 271257: love you too much  
130758 > 271257: always

It’s dark when Tate and Jackson come through the trees. When Tate sees Butch out on the porch, he breaks into a run. His arms wrap around Butch’s shoulders, pulling him close and smashing their faces together. Too much enthusiasm and teeth all at once. He’s laughing into Butch’s mouth while Butch tries to pin him down to kiss. 

They knock into the floor, the wood of the porch creaking underneath their weight.

“We did it,” Tate nearly shrieks in his excitement. “We did it.”

“Yeah,” Butch has to hold himself back from screaming. “We did.”

\--

Yalda ends up sleeping on the bed, laid flat on his stomach as to keep pressure off his back. Jackson doesn’t even ask about taking the couch, just flopping down and covering her face with her arm. To be fair, she looks exhausted, the corners of her mouth turned down. 

Butch and Tate end up curled up together on the floor, Tate’s head tucked against Butch’s chest. Though he has a thousand questions, now isn't the time to ask. The others are sleeping, but he can feel Tate vibrating in his arms. Neither of them can get comfortable. 

They make a good faith effort of trying to fall asleep, but Tate is still too jittery. And Butch will never get to sleep if Tate can’t. 

“Wanna go back outside?” Butch whispers into Tate’s hair. 

Tate nods against him.

There are three cigarettes left in the pack. Butch lights one up as soon as they’re outside. The night is cold and clear, Tate bundles up against his side, inhaling deeply every time Butch exhales. 

“What happened?” Butch asks. Tate can answer as little or as much as he wants. 

Tate shrugs, “They really want her back, you know? Even though she’ll never be Elder now. Tainted goods and all. They’ll want to make an example outta her or something. Bet her mother would sell her out. They chased us for hours, then,” Tate smiles. “Circled back around to the compound. They hadn’t turned the turrets back on. Don’t matter though. Jackson is fucking cagey as shit. We lifted a fucking Vertibird, flew back off.”

“Fucking liar,” Butch accuses. “Then why were your asses running through the forest?”

“Had to ditch it. But don’t worry, it’s well hidden. We can go back to it. Sweetest ride we could manage.”

Butch isn’t sure he wants to fly in the Bird.

He finishes his cigarette, looking up at the moon. Somewhere, he read that it like, regulates the tides. Didn’t spend much time understanding it. Wasn’t really the kind of shit he was into. Liked shit that could get him into trouble more. Fucking stars and shit? That’s unchanging. No point.

“I have something...Scribe Mirabella gave it to me yesterday morning.” Butch can't really believe that it was only ten hours ago he was still in the compound. The holo is still lodged in his Pipboy. Seemed the safest place for it.

From the first “Hello?” Tate nearly cries. Butch can tell from the way Tate croaks, he's trying not to. He knows, too, because he felt the same way. They listen to the tape together, Tate pressed close to Butch’s side, his eyes fixed to the Pipboy screen, though the only thing there is the wavelength that tracks Amata’s voice. Tate keeps his hand on Butch’s leg, his fingers curled tight.

Butch stops the tape before the end. Somehow, even now, it seems too personal to share, even though Tate knows about her. The little girl Butch has never seen. Never will.

“She should hate me,” Tate mumbles against Butch’s shoulder.

“I told you, she couldn't. Do you believe it now?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Butch finishes up his last cigarette, stamping out the ember against the deck and flinging the filter into the forest. In the morning, they'll go somewhere else. Not here. Yalda should be well enough to travel. Tate gave him a second stim before he fell asleep. Whether or not Jackson wants to move with them is up to her. But Yalda doesn't have the survival skills to make it alone.

“Wanna go home?” Butch asks, though he leaves it ambiguous where he means.

“Yeah,” Tate responds. He can't clarify either. Because home is somewhere and nowhere and here.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always very much appreciated.  
> You can also find me on [tumblr](imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)


End file.
